


Soldier's Heart

by Piplover



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 85,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piplover/pseuds/Piplover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return from his three years' "death," not all is as it should be for Holmes.  The road is long ahead, but Watson will always be there to walk it with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Jenlee1, and my Brit picker, Nodbear. Also, this story would not exist without the help, encouragement, support, and brainstorming of Lisa Adolf. Thanks, hon!

         Soldier’s Heart

    In the week following his return to Baker Street and his familiar rooms, Holmes found himself caught in the grip of a strange lethargy.  Never one to embrace sleep, or any of the other demands his body placed on him, he nevertheless found himself nodding off in the early afternoons and retiring shortly after supper.  

    Such had been his routine that it no longer surprised him to wake from a sudden doze and realize that several hours had passed.  He found himself thankful that Watson was still making arrangements for the selling of his practice and was not present to notice the almost frightening exhaustion, for he surely would have hovered and worried.  

    It was a rainy, dreary Tuesday afternoon, with the shutters parted to allow the weak light into the sitting room, when things reached a point Holmes could no longer ignore.  The newspaper, a lifeline for him in the past years, lay forgotten in his lap as his head bobbed to his chest.  

    A gentle touch to his arm had reflexes moving his body before his eyes had even forced their way open, and he startled his unknown attacker by jumping to his feet, arm pulled back to deliver a blow to whatever danger had managed to creep up on him.

    “Mr. Holmes!”

    Mrs. Hudson blinked up at him, face pale as a quivering hand instinctively moved to ward off his blow, while he stared at her with eyes slowly regaining coherency.  

    “Mrs. Hudson,” he rasped, voice hoarse from sleep and the adrenaline pumping through his veins.  Slowly his mind processed the information around him, the familiar mess and clutter out of place with the terrified beating of his heart. He only belatedly realized his arm was still cocked to deliver a blow, and he quickly lowered it, feeling the blood rush to his face.

    “Mrs. Hudson, I’m so terribly sorry,” he apologized, moving hesitantly toward her, uncertain how to banish the tinge of fear that lingered in her eyes.  “You startled me.”

    “So I gathered,” she breathed out shakily, her lips twitching into a familiar smile as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress.  “It was foolish of me to try and wake you in such a manner, but I feared you would suffer if you remained in your current position.”  The smile grew slightly, becoming something more genuine and heartfelt as she reached down to retrieve a disturbed pillow from the floor.  “If you would like to continue, I will keep tea until you are less likely to drown in it.”

    “Still trying to poison me, Nanny?” he asked, the words sounding strained and rough to his ears.

    A raised eyebrow was his only answer as she placed the cushion back onto the settee and turned to make her way out.   “Tea will be ready shortly if you like.”  
    Holmes swallowed as he watched her leave, the cloying taste of copper in his throat a sickening reminder of the damage he could have done if he had not come back to his senses.  Something had to be done, before he hurt those he cared about more than he already had.

                        ***

    The last time he had entered Watson’s practice it had been under the guise of the bookseller.  This time, as he handed his card to the wide-eyed maid who stuttered and stared at him with wonder, he found himself wishing he had thought to repeat the  performance in a different disguise.  After three years of living as anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, it was disconcerting to find himself recognized.  

    Shoulders tensing as the young girl departed, he forced himself to nod genially to the only other occupant in the small sitting room, a grey-haired gentleman whose ink-stained fingers, spectacles, and watch-chain proclaimed him an accountant.      

    The man smiled politely back at him, though his gaze held no recognition, and Holmes felt his shoulders relax after a moment of silence.  He lowered himself into the chair opposite the surgery doors, the legs creaking as he shifted slightly on the less-than-plump cushion.  

    With no desire to start a conversation, Holmes allowed his eyes to roam the small sitting room, taking in the details he had not processed before.  The chairs, four of them, were spaced evenly against the walls, the wood a deep mahogany.  The cushions, as his backside could attest, were fashionable, though past their prime.  A few stray threads and stained patches he did not wish to dwell on attested to the abundance of patients who had passed through this sitting room, and Holmes felt a warm flicker of pride in his friend for having such an established practice.  

    The floor was covered in a rich carpet which muffled the sounds of any passing through the room, a hazard Holmes would have warned his friend against once, but now was merely an observation.  After all, Watson would soon be ensconced in Baker Street, where Holmes could keep an eye out for any danger which might choose to hunt them.

    His observations complete, Holmes allowed his eyes to close as he contemplated the concert he hoped to attend that night.  Slowly the minutes dragged by, each one seemingly longer than the last.  He found his body slowly relaxing under the soothing sounds of the other man’s breathing and the quiet murmurs from the street outside.  Somewhere down the hall, out of his line of sight,  a clock was ticking, the steady rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat.  

    A door opened to his left, his brain detailing the direction (outside) and weight of the person (slight, no more than 95 pounds) as they exited the house.

    “Oi, ye little buggers!  Be orff with ye, the lot of ye!”  

    The screech, along with the loud bang which accompanied it, had Holmes out of his chair and reaching for a revolver he was not carrying, eyes staring blankly about him as his numbed brain tried to pinpoint where the danger was coming from.  Distantly, through the sudden rush of blood in his ears and the rabbit-like fluttering of his heart, he was aware that his own breaths had grown harsh.  

    “I say, Sir, are you all right?”

    The voice (rasping, slight wheeze indicating asthma) preceded a gentle touch to his arm, the contact as startling as the yell had been.

    Stumbling away from the inquiring touch, and the thoroughly confused accountant, Holmes found his usual grace deserted him as the back of his legs banged forcefully against his chair, sending him sprawling in an undignified heap to the floor, which was actually not as plush as it appeared.  

    For one moment everything seemed to still before erupting into chaos.  

    Footsteps heralded the maid as she rushed into the room, wide eyes startled and touched with amazement as she took in the scene.  The surgery doors flung themselves open, Watson‘s thin form emerging in alarm, his cane gripped tightly in his hand as a young man peeked out from behind his shoulder, eyes curious and a little alarmed in his pale face.

    “What the devil -” Watson demanded, his voice petering out as he took in Holmes sprawled upon his floor, the maid hovering just off to his left and the elderly gentleman crouched beside him as though to help him stand.  

    “Watson,” Holmes murmured, feeling the blood return to his face with a vengeance, his cheeks burning in humiliation.   

    “Holmes?” Watson asked, moving immediately to his friend’s side, helping him sit up as the others hovered in the background.  “Mr. Whitney, I’m terribly sorry.  Would you mind if I settle my friend here, before I finish with your nephew?”

    “Not at all, Doctor, not at all.  Take your time.  Edward can wait a few moments, can’t you, lad?” the accountant assured, casting a fond gaze to the young man who continued to watch the events unfold behind Watson’s back.  

    “Of course, Uncle,” Edward agreed, smiling shyly down at Holmes, the narrow face honest and open as he took in the situation.  

    “Thank you, both of you.”  Watson smiled at both men in heart-felt appreciation before turning his attention back to Holmes.  “Can you stand, old cock?”

    “Of course,” Holmes murmured, feeling the heat of his blush all the way down his neck.  “I’m fine, truly.”

    “No worries.  Come on, let’s get you settled.  Nettie,  I think some tea is in order, if you please.”  This last Watson directed to the young maid, who bobbed her head quickly before darting out, leaving the men to help Holmes to his feet.  

    The detective stumbled once, the blood rushing in his ears leaving him feeling oddly light-headed, and Watson’s grip was firm as he took him by the elbow and steered him into the exam room.

    “I’ll be but a moment, Mr. Whitney, then we can finish up in my study, if you would be so kind,” Watson called over his shoulder, leading Holmes to the nearest chair by the door and pushing him down firmly.  “I’ll be back shortly, and then we can talk.  Ms. Cardenburg should have your tea soon.  Don’t.  Move!”   This last was said with a warning finger as Watson turned to leave.  “I mean it, Holmes.  You look ghastly, and people will talk.”

    Holmes snorted, grimacing at Watson’s back as the doctor left, closing the doors behind him with a soft snick of the latch.   Settling back in the chair, trying not to think about what a fool he was making of himself, Holmes wondered briefly if it were possible to perish from embarrassment.  

    ***

    The chair in Watson’s office was much plumper than those in the waiting room, the floor tiled rather than carpeted, as would befit a room where messes were occasionally to be expected.  As the warmth of the teacup seeped into his strangely cold hands, Holmes wondered if he were about to make another such mess, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as embarrassment continued to thrum through his burning cheeks.  Surely he could have waited a few more days to bring his situation to Watson’s attention without imposing on him during his business hours?  And in front of patients, no less!

    “Holmes.”  He started, head jerking up in surprise as Watson entered the room, his footsteps having made no sound on the carpeting outside.

    His friend’s voice held that hint of fond worry and exasperation which Holmes had once despaired of ever hearing again, and his fingers were warm as they wrapped gently around his wrist.   Blue eyes narrowed in concern as the doctor knelt next to him.

    “Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, reaching for the nearest basin behind him, eyes focusing on the sweat beading Holmes’ face, the pale tinge to his skin and the way his friend kept swallowing.  It did not take a great detective to read the signs.  
      
    “I – I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, brow wrinkling in confusion as his body rebelled against him.  Surely there was no reason for his hands to be shaking still, or his head to feel so turned!  He swallowed again, trying to keep his stomach where it belonged.

    Before he could amend his statement to a definite confirmation, Holmes found himself bent double over the basin, vomiting, as Watson’s broad, gentle hand steadied his heaving shoulders.

    A distant part of his brain not filled with horror at the spectacle he must be making registered the sound of the teacup shattering as it impacted with the floor.

    “Damn!” Watson cursed, his body jerking away from the hot splatters, though his hand did not stray from Holmes’ back.   “Never mind the cup, old boy.  Get it out.  I see you haven’t eaten much today.”

    The soothing hand on his back continued to rub gently even as the heaving stopped, leaving him clutching the basin and spitting bile.  

    “I’m sorry,” Holmes managed to gasp, horrified at the image he must present.  
      
    “Hush now, none of that.  I’m just thankful you seem to have found some reason in your absence and came to me rather than stay home.  Once you’re done, we’ll get you settled and you can tell me what’s happened.”  Watson’s voice was gentle, as it always was when dealing with a sick Holmes, and didn’t sound the slightest bit put out, for which Holmes was immensely grateful.

    “I think I’m all right now,” Holmes murmured, swallowing thickly around the burn in his throat.  

    “Let me ring for some more tea, then you can lay down for a bit and tell me what’s been going on.”  Watson spoke as he went about cleaning up, disposing of the basin with prompt efficiency before sticking his head out the doors.  “Nettie, there’s been a slight accident with the tea.  Could you bring two more cups, please?”

    Holmes did not hear a response, but Watson seemed satisfied and was back to crouch next to him swiftly.  

    “No fever, though you’re terribly pale and clammy.  Hands shaking slightly, pulse a bit fast.  When did you last eat?” His tone had undergone that change it sometimes did when dealing with Holmes, becoming much more professional as he catalogued his ills.  

    “I believe it was this morning.  I didn’t have much of a stomach,” Holmes admitted.  The evidence of his lack of appetite had already been given, and he knew it would do little good to lie to his friend.  “I did, however, have a full supper last night.”  
      
    “Well, that’s something,” Watson murmured approvingly.  “Any troubles with nausea before today?”

    “No, I’ve been -”  Holmes stopped, unable to find the correct words.  He had not been fine, for otherwise he would not be making such a fool of himself now.  But he had not truly been sick, either.  “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” he finally sighed, leaning his head back wearily against the chair.  “Which is why I have come to speak to you.”

    Watson patted his shoulder comfortingly, his smile oddly contrasting with the concern in his eyes.  “I have cleared my schedule for the rest of the day, so we needn’t worry about interruptions.”

            Holmes closed his eyes, cursing himself for a fool.  He really shouldn’t have bothered the doctor, even if this was the last week he was taking patients.

            “You didn’t have to do that, dear boy. I’m not so done in that you –“

            “Enough, Holmes,” Watson interrupted firmly, glaring at his friend in a much more familiar fashion when Holmes jerked his gaze back to him, startled.  “This is the first time in my memory that you have voluntarily come to me for my professional skill, and I shan’t have us disturbed.  Now, once Nettie returns with the tea we’re going to both enjoy a cup and then you shall tell me what has brought you here.”

            Seeing the steely determination in his friend’s eyes, Holmes decided it was best to save his argument for later.  As it stood, the thought of sharing tea and a leisurely afternoon with Watson was more appealing than returning to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson’s increasingly worried frowns.

            “Have you found accommodations for your patients?” he asked instead, curious about this aspect of his friend which he had never truly had an opportunity, nor, in fact, the inclination, to study.

            “Yes.  Anstruther has agreed to take the majority, and I have several who are more than happy to have me make house-calls.  I’m afraid I won’t be entirely at your disposal at Baker Street, but I can’t afford to completely retire just yet.”  Watson seemed pleased by the question, and though his tone held a hint of remorse at his continuing to work, both men knew that without some form of distraction the doctor was as prone to boredom as Holmes at times.

            “I suppose I shall have to make do,” Holmes sniffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

            Watson opened his mouth to respond, no doubt a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when a slight tap on the door alerted them to the maid’s return.  Patting Holmes’ shoulder once more, Watson went to open the door, smiling his thanks at the young maid and speaking softly to her as he gestured to the spilled mess on the floor, earning an understanding smile and another bob before she left, supposedly to retrieve cleaning supplies.

            “Do you feel up to moving?  I think the study might be more comfortable for you, and there’s a settee where you can lay down,” Watson asked, running a critical eye over Holmes as though expecting him to collapse.

            “I think I’m perfectly capable of walking to the other room, Watson.  I’m not quite as fragile as you think,” Holmes scoffed, affronted.

            “Haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you, old cock?” Watson muttered, smiling despite himself as Holmes levered himself up, breathing deeply through his nose as he did so.

            “Hush,” Holmes grumbled once he was upright, gesturing for Watson to lead the way.

            If the doctor hovered close to his side as they walked, neither one commented.

                                                ***

            The heat of the tea and the sweetness of the honey eased the burn in Holmes’ throat, and after finishing his cup he found himself lounging comfortably on Watson’s settee, the warm browns and dark reds soothing after the sterile tiles of the exam room.

            Sitting next to him in a chair which looked to rival the one at Baker Street for comfort, Watson eyed his friend seriously as he set his own cup on the tray, moving the items to the far corner of his desk so he could give his friend his full attention.

            “Tell me,” he said, folding his hands and crossing his feet at the ankle.

            Holmes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he tried to find the words for something he could not fully understand.

            “I have been… unusually tired of late,” he began, his eyes on the rich upholstery of Watson’s chair rather than the man himself.  “I find myself dozing in the afternoon, despite my attempts to remain awake, and then retiring shortly after supper, if I make it that long.”  He paused, clearing his throat as he contemplated how to word the next confession.  “I have also found myself... disturbed… by small things.  Touches, though innocent, seem nefarious and threatening, and yesterday I…”  He stopped, closing his eyes as he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s pale face, lips quivering with fear as she had prepared herself for a blow.

            Watson didn’t push when the silence stretched on, but his gaze remained unwavering, prompting his friend to continue.

            “I was on the settee, dozing, when Mrs. Hudson came to announce tea.  She feared I would be uncomfortable and touched my arm.  I almost – I –“ He stopped again, turning his face away in shame as he forced himself to confess his actions.  “I leapt up and would have struck her if she had not called out in fright.  I had not even been fully awake, Watson,” he whispered, shame and embarrassment softening his tone so that Watson had to strain to hear the last.  “I fear that if I continue this way I may do one of you damage, and I – I could not –“

            The words seemed to stick in his throat, and once more the threat of nausea had him curling in on himself, hands burying themselves in his hair before covering his face.  “I could not bear it if I hurt you anymore than I already have.”

            “Hush, now,” Watson murmured, moving to sit on the settee in the small space created by Holmes’ curled form.  “Breathe deep, and let it out slowly.”

            Holmes did as instructed, his gasping breaths ragged and shallow as he fought to regain control.  To his utter horror, tears threatened to escape his burning eyes, and he closed them tightly.

            “Breathe, Holmes,” Watson ordered again, resting a hand on Holmes’ back.  “If you make yourself sick in here you will have to settle for the rubbish bin and that is not nearly so easy to clean.”

            A surprised laugh escaped Holmes, followed by a hiccupping breath and a relaxing of the tight muscles under the doctor’s hand.  The hands came down, rubbing any trace of wetness from his face, and settled stiffly on his stomach.

            “That’s better,” Watson grinned, turning the other man slightly so the detective could see his expression.   For a moment neither spoke, Holmes concentrating on his breathing and Watson keeping a clinical eye on him until the threat of sickness had passed.  “Feel better?” he asked, continuing to run his hand up and down Holmes’ back, smiling as the other man nodded.

            “Good.  Now, before we continue I want you to do me a favor.  No, don’t interrupt, I’m speaking as your doctor right now and want you to listen.  I would like to give you a thorough checkup, goodness knows what you have done to yourself in – in your absence.  This could very well be a sickness you picked up, or it could be something unrelated.  Determining the cause of your exhaustion will allow us to focus on your symptoms, and try to alleviate them.  However,” he added, seeing Holmes about to speak and raising a warning hand to forestall any further argument, “However, I do not believe that the answer is going to be simple, Holmes.  You have been under a great strain for a very long time, and it has taken a toll on you.  You need to rest, and I’m not talking about a week between cases.”  
      
    “Don’t be absurd, Watson,” Holmes grumbled, scowling.  “I have already had several requests for help since my return.  How can I merely dismiss them if I have any wish to re-establish myself?”

    “You will do so because if you don’t, you may not be capable of helping anyone again,” Watson answered seriously.  “You are worn ragged, Holmes.  Even if you had not come to me with these symptoms, I would have realized something was wrong the moment I saw you at home.  You need to rest and regain your strength before you return to practice.”

    The silence stretched between them as Holmes narrowed  his eyes, searching Watson’s face for any sign of exaggeration and Watson allowing him to see his very real concern.  Finally, after what must have been several minutes, Holmes asked softly, “You truly believe me to be in such a wretched state?”

    “I do,” Watson answered without the slightest hesitation.  “To put it bluntly, old cock, you look horrible.”  The doctor’s hand moved to rest on Holmes’ shoulder, squeezing tightly.  “Let me do the physical.  It shouldn’t take too long, and I would like very much to assure myself that you are truly returned to me in more or less one piece.”

    Unable to resist the quiet pleading in his friend’s tone, Holmes sighed deeply and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling.  

    “Very well, mother hen.  If I must endure this indignity, then let us be done with it.”

    “Good,” Watson grinned, giving Holmes a hearty clap on the arm before he released him, standing stiffly as he added, “Let me go get my bag and then we shall get started.”

                    ***

    “Why would you possibly want to know that?” Holmes demanded, glaring at his friend with arms crossed tightly across his naked chest, hands tucked carefully from sight.    

    He had endured the stethoscope, the blood pressure gauge, and the thermometer.  He had even endured stripping down to his small clothes so Watson could inspect his lean frame for any signs of sickness or rash, blushing in flustered embarrassment as the doctor’s hands roamed carefully along over-sensitized skin.    

    Now, standing in nothing more than his under things, his friend staring at him in exasperated fondness, he could feel himself losing any resolve to follow through with Watson’s idea of a physical.

    “Believe it or not, Holmes, it could have a very serious impact on your health.  For heaven’s sake, I’m not trying to embarrass you.  I am a doctor, you know,” Watson answered, calmly handing Holmes his trousers with an amused grin.  “Now put those on and answer the question.”

     “I’ve forgotten it,” Holmes muttered, lips turned down petulantly as he dressed.   It was a lie, of course, though Watson chose to take it at face value and asked in a voice so calm Holmes knew he was hiding a smile, “Are you having trouble eliminating?”

    “Watson, that is disgusting!”

    “So I take that as a yes?”

    “No!” Holmes snapped, glaring.  “I am perfectly… fine… in that area.  I promise, there is no trouble.”

    “Good,” Watson grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously as Holmes blushed.  “Honestly, Holmes, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  It’s a perfectly normal bodily function.  So long as your urine is a natural color and your bowels are functioning properly, we can remove those from out list of symptoms.”

    “Yes, well, I think I shall take myself and my functioning bowels and return to Baker Street. I’m certain you have more than enough to draw your conclusions, and I am in need of  a - I am very tired,” Holmes snapped, scowling as Watson calmly handed him his shirt.

    “Just a few more questions, old chap, and then we can both head to Baker Street.  I’m certain Mrs. Hudson would not mind another mouth to feed tonight, and I would very much like to speak with you some more about your symptoms.  No,” he added, as Holmes scowl grew and his face flushed with the beginnings of anger rather than embarrassment.  “Nothing so intrusive, Holmes, I promise.  But I would like a bit more detail as to your travels and some of the trials you faced.”

    At the doctor’s earnest plea, Holmes found himself relenting, the anger draining from him to leave him more weary than upset.

    “Then let me retire for now, dear boy.  I am - I find I am very much in need of a lie down,” Holmes sighed, covering his eyes with his hand, leaving his shirt unbuttoned as he tried to compose himself.  

    “Then rest on the settee for a bit, while I finish off here.  There is no reason to leave the premises without me.  Unless you tire of my company,” Watson urged, his voice hesitant at the last suggestion as he moved to lean against his desk.  
      
    “Of course I don’t tire of you,” Holmes snapped, raising his head to glare as he resumed dressing, fingers moving slowly over the buttons and cufflinks.  “I merely wished… Oh, blast it all, I don’t even know what I want anymore,” he growled, moving to the study door and throwing it open, perhaps to leave, or perhaps to call for more tea from the twittered maid.  Whatever his plans, however, they were cast aside the moment the door opened and a small body fell into the study, landing with a muttered curse as grimy hands skidded against the carpet in an effort to stop.

    For several long seconds, both Holmes and Watson stared at the ragged figure before them, blinking in surprise.

    “Thomas?” Holmes finally asked, disbelief clearly coloring his tone.

    “’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes,” the street urchin answered, standing fully upright and grinning cheekily up at the detective.  “Doctor,” he added, nodding perfunctorily at Watson.

    The lad’s hair was an indeterminate color of brown or blond, so covered in dirt that it was impossible to tell.  His clothes, ragged at the edges and similarly covered in grime, were still of a better fair than most of his ilk, and his feet were shod with functionally cheap boots.  His eyes, a bright blue in his darkened face, were wise beyond his age of ten or eleven, and his movements were those of a wild animal which had found comfort in the occasional pats of an owner.  

    “What the devil are you doing outside my door?” Watson demanded, crossing his arms as he moved to glare down at the boy.

    “I was listenin’,” Thomas explained, as though the situation was self evident.  

    “Why were you listening?” Holmes asked, still scowling, though his expression had softened.  It always did, Watson reflected, when dealing with one of his Irregulars.

    “To make sure you wasn’t goin’ to keel over,” Thomas answered frankly.  “You look bloody awful, Mr. ‘Olmes.”

    Watson covered his smile with his hand, though not before his friend noticed and pursed his lips disapprovingly.  

    “I am perfectly fine, Thomas, and I do not appreciate my privacy being intruded upon.  Please refrain from listening in at keyholes in future, and pass the message along to the others,” Holmes ordered, making a shooing motion as though the conversation had ended and he fully expected the child to run along.

    Both men blinked when a stubborn frown and crossed arms met this demand.  

    “Are you goin’ to stay and let the doctor take care of ye?” Thomas demanded.    

    “Thomas - “ Holmes began, warningly, but the Irregular would not be intimidated.  

    “We jist got ye back, Mr. ‘Olmes,” he continued.  “Yer brother would be right furious if anything ‘appened to ye, and - well, ye’re amazing, Mr, ‘Olmes, but yer brother is scary!”

    Watson’s sudden laugh was quickly smothered into a cough, turning his head as he did so and covering his mouth.

    “What does Mycroft have to do with you invading my privacy and following me around?” Holmes demanded, crossing his own arms. Watson had to fight another fit of mirth at the picture the two presented, standing off against each other.  

    “’E wanted us to make sure ye was all right,” Thomas answered simply.  “’E said we was no longer workin’ fer ‘im, but that ‘e ‘ad a job fer us if we was wantin’ it.  Some o’ the littles weren’t too certain, but after ‘e ‘splained it they was all right.  Mick’s workin’ at the telegram now, so’s we was able easy to let Mr. Mycroft knows ye were to see the doctor ’ere.  ’E wanted us to keeps ’im informed.”

    “I see,” Holmes murmured breathlessly.   He reached absently into his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin, tossing it to the lad heedless of its denomination.  “Kindly ask Mick to inform my brother I will speak with him tomorrow at his club, and that you are all working for me again, so he is to desist using your services without consulting me first.”

    “Right,” Thomas agreed, nodding dutifully before turning to exit, the coin already vanished.  

    “Thomas, a moment please,” Watson called, earning confused looks from both, though the boy stopped and looked to the doctor expectantly.  “How did you get in here to begin with?  Miss Palmer can be very strict with whom she admits.”

    “Oh, that was easy!” Thomas grinned, putting two grimy fingers to his mouth and whistling loudly.  A moment later, there was a scraping at the window, followed by another dirt covered head popping up, black hair a mess of snarls and tangles.

    “’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes!” the lad greeted, waving cheerfully as he deftly scrambled over the windowsill into the room.  “’Ello, Doctor!”

    “Yer locks are pretty ‘orrible,” Thomas explained almost apologetically as the small boy moved to stand beside him.  “Mud ‘ere ‘ad no problem at all, did ye, Mud?”

    “No, twas easy!  So’s yer kitchen door, Doctor.  Yer maid’s a bit glocky, ain’t she?  Nice for a twist, but she leaves yer door wide open when she takes the rubbish out.”

    “Does she?” Watson asked faintly, leaning back against his desk heavily and running a hand over his face wearily.  “I shall have words with her.”

    “And yer upstairs is no better,” Mud added, grimacing.  “Ye might want to fix that.”

    “Oh, Lord,” Watson sighed, head bowed.

    “Thank you, Thomas, Mud.  But Dr. Watson will not be residing here much longer, and Baker Street is quite secure, as you all well know. Now, both of you, out,” Holmes said firmly, shooing the boys back to the window. “Thomas, remember that message for Mick.  And please no more uninvited visits.  You might frighten the maid.”

    Preparing to climb out, both boys held their hands up expectantly, grinning unrepentantly as Holmes deposited a coin in each palm with a twitch of his lips.

    “Take care of ‘im, Doctor!” Thomas called as he disappeared from view, Mud following easily and closing the window behind him.

    “Well, I think that was quite enough excitement for one day,” Watson sighed, standing up straight and eyeing Holmes seriously.  “We can finish the exam later, once you’ve had a chance to rest.”  
      
    “Watson -” Holmes began to protest, but was cut off by the other’s raised eyebrow and steely glare.  “I shall be on the settee,” he finished, scowling as he threw himself onto the furniture, grumbling under his breath as he curled his legs up to his chest, allowing his head to rest on his arm, the other draped over his thigh.  

    Watson watched him settle before moving to sit behind his desk, notes and files scattered haphazardly over the surface.  Within moments of placing pen to paper, the soft, even breathing of his friend alerted him of Holmes having drifted off to sleep.

    Smiling softly, finding himself more at ease and relaxed than he had been in years, Watson set about completing his paperwork for the day and writing up the results for Holmes’ exam.  Often his gaze would wander to the still form curled up beside him, and his eyes would lose their focus as fond memories and still fresh relief washed over him once more.  

    Holmes had returned to him. Everything else would work itself out.    
    *****

    It was half four when they hailed a hansom to take them back to Baker Street, though the walk was not very long.  Watson’s leg throbbed with each step, and Holmes’ eyes remained underlined with dark circles, his already pale features washed out and dimmed in the overcast gloom of the afternoon.  The ride was silent, Holmes leaning comfortably against Watson’s side, his gaze unfocused and distant, while Watson had to continually fight to stifle a smile. The memory of Holmes flailing and yelling after the wadded up paper had hit him squarely between the eyes was one he knew he would cherish for years to come.  It had taken a good fifteen minutes before the detective had stopped pouting and admitted it had been one of the more inventive ways of waking him up.    
      
    When they made it to Baker Street it was the doctor who paid for their fare, and  
neither spoke as they made their way slowly up the seventeen steps.  Mrs. Hudson was just coming out of the sitting room, apparently having taken the opportunity to clean while Holmes was away, and smiled brilliantly.

    “Doctor, how good to see you.  I do hope you’ll be staying for dinner?” she asked, her eyes darting to Holmes and then back again as her smile took on a slightly desperate air.  “It’s been too long since anyone has truly enjoyed my cooking.”

    “And it may be longer yet, if the smell from the kitchen is what is available,” Holmes grumbled, earning a scowl and good natured swat.      

    “It will be the bread and gruel for you, if you keep that up,” Mrs. Hudson warned, making her way towards the stairs.  “They’re boiling already and should be properly scorched.”

    Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Hudson was already making her way down the stairs, and the urge to engage in a battle of wits drained out of him as surely as water from a broken pitcher.

    “Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, a hand on Holmes’ back gently propelling him into the sitting room, concerned eyes watching as Holmes sunk gratefully onto the settee with a sigh and covered his eyes with an arm.

    “Why don’t you rest some more, and I’ll wake you for dinner?” Watson asked softly, sinking comfortably into his chair by the fire and earning a resigned smile from his supine friend, though the arm did not move.

    “That sounds lovely, Watson.  I fear you may be lacking in information about my adventures for a bit longer, if you’ll forgive me,” Holmes slurred, his voice little more than a mumble.

    “No worries.  Listening to you snore is quite soothing, actually.”

    Holmes deigned to lower his arm to glare at Watson, though a large yawn ruined the effect and only served to produce a chuckle from his friend.  “You used to complain about my snoring,“ he grumbled as he replaced his arm, shifting to curl further onto his side.  In a few short minutes his breathing had, indeed, evened out into soft snoring.

    “Never again,” Watson whispered, the words barely more than a breath.  He watched fondly for a moment, then stood and carefully pulled a quilt one of Holmes’ clients had made for him off the back of the settee, draping it over the other’s curled form and grinning as Holmes mumbled and burrowed into the warmth. In the dim, watery light from the window, the detective looked worn down, his presence somehow diminished from the larger than life persona Watson had carried the memory of.

          A lock of dark hair fell over Holmes’ cheek, obscuring the nearest eye and fluttering with each breath.  Hesitantly, afraid to wake his friend, Watson gently pushed the soft mass back, fingers lingering over the warm forehead, creased with unknown worries and too many close calls.  

          “Such a miracle,” he whispered.  Emotion, thick and dangerously close to overwhelming, formed a hard lump in his throat, forcing him to swallow painfully.   He coughed, blinking back the slight burn from his eyes, and hastily returned to his seat before the fire.   The teasing warmth  was only just beginning to fill the room, the chill from outside still prevalent in the ache from his old wound.  

    He sat forward slightly, the dance of the flames almost mesmerizing as his mind cast back to sun baked sand and heat so oppressive it made London summers feel like a spring holiday.

    It had not been easy adjusting to life back amongst  the civilians.  People who had never been rousted out of a sound sleep by alarm, or been elbow deep in bowels and blood while the life before them slowly slipped away with whimpers and soft cries for mothers far away.  So many days of feeling as though he would never be safe again, of little sleep and food a rare luxury.  

    No, it had not been easy to resume a life of ordinary, boring days, where he could sleep as long as he liked, and eat whatever food he could afford, and drink all he wanted.  Looking back, Watson found himself smiling slightly in wonder that he had not spent every shilling he owned on luxuries such as pasties and alcohol, though he admitted quite freely to himself that that may have been because he kept losing it on ill-thought gambling debts.  

    A whimper to his right turned his head, but Holmes had already settled, shifting slightly to burrow deeper into the blanket, his long, lean form curled protectively against unknown threats.  

    Watson’s smile faded as he took in his friend’s appearance.  The pale skin, sallow and thin looking.  Dark circles bruised his eyes even in sleep, and there were touches of silver at his temple that had not been present three years previously.  

    Memories, long buried under better circumstances, flooded Watson’s mind, flashes of nightmares, reactions to loud noises and the terrible exhaustion which had plagued him for several months even after he had moved into Baker Street.  Suddenly the symptoms and behaviors made a horrible, terrible sense, and he realized why a nagging familiarity had been tugging at the edges of his thoughts.  

    He had lived the symptoms Holmes now exhibited, still dealt with them on particularly bad days.  He had treated similar complaints in fellow veterans, commiserated with them over the misery of past experiences and tried to make light what they suffered so that none of them would feel the cowards they secretly all feared they were.   

    Soldier’s heart.     
      
    It was not a diagnosis well known outside of the Americas, though Watson had spoken often with one of the surgeons at St. Bart’s who had a particular enthusiasm for the American Civil War and had studied it extensively.  

    Though Holmes had been reluctant to admit to it during his exam, he had confessed to finding himself out of breath for no apparent reason, his heart beating rapidly and painfully in his too-thin chest.  Watson had listened carefully for any sign of weakness or damage, but had found no physical reason for such symptoms.  

    Now he understood why.    
      
    A soft groan from the settee, followed by a nearly inaudible whimper of pain, had Watson out of his chair and by his friend’s side immediately, hand soothing sweat damp hair from a flushed forehead.  The doctor was mindful of Holmes’ fists, but rather than the fearful awakening he had almost expected, the detective seemed to settle, the pinched lines of worry around his eyes easing and his breathing once more calming.  

    “Hush now,” Watson whispered, wincing at the warning twinge in his leg, but not moving from his crouched position.  “Easy, old boy.  You’re all right, nothing can harm you here.  You’re safe.  I promise, no one shall harm you.”

    Only when the rapid breaths had once more fallen into a deep rhythm, broken by the occasional snuffling snore, did Watson return to his seat, falling heavily into the cushions as he ran a hand over his eyes.  

    He had a diagnosis now, which brought its own relief.  But how to tell Holmes there was no true cure for what ailed him?  For what ailed them both?  
     
    *******    

    Mrs. Hudson had prepared a thick, hearty stew for their dinner, the aroma of which filled the rooms and roused Holmes before the slight tapping on the door.  When Watson had relieved their landlady of the heavy tureen, he had given her a reassuring nod as her eyes drifted to the lazily stretching Holmes, earning a grateful smile and promise to bring the remaining dishes up.

    “Come along, Holmes.  This smells absolutely delicious, and even you must be starving with this to tempt your appetite!” Watson coaxed, grinning as Holmes’ stomach chose that moment to let out a rather impressive rumble.  

    Rather than be embarrassed by the noise, Holmes grinned widely in amusement.   His face had regained some of its color after his rest and his cheeks dimpled with the smile as he made his way to the table.  

    “I do believe Nanny has outdone herself, “ he agreed, taking a deep breath in appreciation.  

    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson replied sweetly, entering the room with another tray filled with steaming bread, plates and bowls, and the makings for tea.  “High praise indeed coming from you.”

    The tray was deposited, and with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes she asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you two gentlemen?”

    “This will be all, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson answered hurriedly, seeing Holmes’ eyes narrow in preparation of a smart comeback.  “Everything looks wonderful.”

    With a nod and a graceful tilt of her head she swept out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her as she did and leaving the two men to dine in peace.

    They set about filling up their dishes, Watson watching in satisfaction as Holmes dug into his meal with relish,  and for nearly a quarter hour neither spoke, engrossed in their repast.  It was only after Holmes had used his bread to mop up the remains of his bowl  that he spoke, breaking the silence almost hesitantly as Watson sipped at his tea.

    “Watson, I know that I promised to regale you with tales from my journey, but would you mind terribly if we put that off for one more night?  There is a concert tonight, a Mendelssohn composition, that I would very much like to attend with you, if you are amenable.”   

    “That sounds like a lovely idea, Holmes,” Watson agreed, hiding his smile behind his cup at the wistful, almost childlike eagerness in Holmes’ voice.  

    “Good,” Holmes exclaimed, jumping up from the table with more energy than Watson had seen in him since taking down Moran.  “We have just enough time to prepare, and then off to music land!”

    Watson laughed as Holmes darted into his room, finishing his tea sedately before deciding on a course of action.  He had already begun to move small items and some of his attire back to his old room, and he was almost certain his evening attire was hanging in his wardrobe.  

    Stacking the dishes neatly for Mrs. Hudson to collect, he limped upstairs to tidy and change, smiling at his reflection as he finished fastening his collar and taking stock of himself in the mirror.

    It had been too long since the call of a symphony or the theater had interested him.  After Holmes’ death, the world had seemed a flat, grey place, where little besides his work, his memories, and the quiet times with his wife, had mattered.  Mary, rest her soul, had been unable to interest him in attending any sort of function on a regular basis, and more than once they had fought about his lack of interest in keeping up appearances for their friends.

    His reflection smiled sadly, a turn of the mouth that did not reach the eyes as his fingers stilled, remembering the last time he had attended the opera, Mary frail and sickly by then, but her eyes gleaming with joy as she had listened to the music with rapt fascination.  In many ways she had reminded him of Holmes at that moment,  and it had left him with a painful ache in his chest which no amount of brandy or work could cure.  It had been the last time he had attended a performance, a little over a year ago, now that he thought about it.  

    Shaking his head to rid himself of the maudlin thoughts, Watson finished dressing, admiring the way the dark blue jacket still fit his frame even after so long a time unused.  Pressing his hands once down the front of his shirt, he made his way downstairs.

    “Holmes, are you ready?  We should be able to catch a cab and make it just in -”  He stopped on the landing, taking in the figure before him with wide eyes.

    Holmes smiled in amusement at the reaction, standing a bit straighter as Watson’s eyes took in his appearance.  The detective knew he had been a bit disheveled of late, and it had felt wonderful to shave and pomade his hair into a slick shine.  His black jacket fit him perfectly, as he had never been one to gain weight easily, and the shirt was one of Watson’s, conveniently left in his wardrobe before everything had fallen apart and still pressed neatly.  Even his cravat, a deep burgundy, was perfectly tied.

    “Are you ready, dear fellow?” Holmes asked, motioning towards the door as the doctor  finished descending the stairs.

    “Yes,” Watson breathed, still staring with overt appreciation.  He came back to his senses with a cough, repeating, “Yes, let us go.  We should be just in time.”

    Motioning for the doctor to precede him, the two made their way down the stairs, Watson making sure to grab their umbrellas on the way out.  As they reached the foyer Mrs. Hudson was closing the door, and she turned to look at them in surprised pleasure.  

    “Such lovely gentlemen,” she beamed, making her way over to them and examining them as a mother would her children before their first public outing.  “I do hope you have a good evening.”  She smiled as she handed over a telegram form to Holmes, explaining, “This arrived just a moment ago for you, Mr. Holmes.”

    “Thank you, Nanny,” Holmes murmured, offering her one of his brief smiles as she left them, reading the form with a raised eyebrow.

    “Anything the matter?” Watson asked, slipping his gloves on as he moved to the door, watching Holmes and gauging his reaction to whatever he was reading.  

    “No, no,” Holmes assured him, tucking the form into his pocket and slipping his own gloves on.  “My brother just confirmed our lunch tomorrow, and has advised me that if I wish him to refrain from using the services of my Irregulars I shall have to keep him au courant on my physical condition and whereabouts, lest he remand me to his Chichester estate and the tender mercies of Mrs. Everman.”  The shudder Holmes gave was not entirely for show, and Watson laughed at his rueful expression.  

    “Then I suggest you keep your brother current to avoid such a dire punishment,” he agreed, holding out his arm.  Holmes tucked his hand into the crook of the doctor’s elbow, and the two of them made their way out into the blustery spring night, top hats held firmly in place with hands.

    Hailing a cab was easy with most people avoiding the weather and off the streets, and they made it with plenty of time to spare.  The seats were comfortably worn, and the strains of the orchestra limbering their fingers and tuning was a familiar, comforting background noise.  

    As the lights dimmed and the music began, Watson found his attention drifting to his friend, taking in the languid expression, closed eyes, and the softly waving finger.  It may have been nearly a year since Watson had been to any kind of social event, but the thought of his friend, running for his life and unable to enjoy any of the pleasures he so relished, brought another lump to the doctor’s throat.  

    “He’s back now,” he told himself silently, blinking his eyes furiously and cursing himself for a sentimental fool.  “He’s safe, and if he wants to listen to a thousand symphonies, then by God, we shall!”

    Forcing himself to abandon such depressing thoughts and focus on the moment, Watson closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax back into his seat, enjoying the music and the company with a strange sense that all in his world was finally, at last, beginning to right itself.  

      ***

    The cab ride back to Baker Street was comfortably silent, the two men lost in their own thoughts as the hansom jostled and bumped along the cobbles.  Holmes’ gaze remained fixed out the window, watching the darkness with a peaceful calm that he had not felt in far too long.  The notes of the symphony floated around his head, and he found himself smiling, the peace of the night taking away some of the harsh sting that the day had brought.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Watson watching him, his own lips turned  up in a fond expression that he might have termed sentimental if he had not known his doctor so well.  

    Without thought, Holmes reached his hand out and gently laid it atop the other’s, where it rested between them on the seat. Watson’s pulse was slow and steady beneath his fingers, and his friend did not change his position save to offer a subtle squeeze in confirmation of the gesture.   It was only as the cabby slowed the horses that the two of them parted, Holmes exiting first and then offering the doctor his hand as he stepped down.  

    Watson waited just inside the door as Holmes paid the fare, and the two of them mounted the seventeen steps together.

    “Care for a brandy?” Holmes murmured when they reached the landing outside their sitting room.

    “Of course.  See you in a few moments, “ Watson agreed, making his way up the stairs to his room and leaving Holmes to watch his retreating figure, marveling at the cut of the jacket on his friend‘s strong form.  

    The detective shook his head fondly as he made his way into his room, divesting himself of the clothes that, although still highly fashionable, felt more restraining than he had remembered, eagerly trading his dinner jacket for his nightshirt and dressing gown.  

    There was still a chill in the air despite the fire crackling cozily, and Holmes dragged his chair closer to the flames as he donned his slippers.  He wiggled around in his seat until he was comfortable and sat for a moment, eyes closed as echoes of stringed instruments serenaded his thoughts.  

    “Holmes?”

    The voice was soft, but it brought his eyes open immediately, and he smiled at Watson’s grin as the man  stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorjamb.

    “Still awake,” he confirmed, watching as Watson went to the sidebar and poured them both a brandy before digging around the coal scuttle for the box of cigars he knew would be there.  

    “Cigar?” he asked before handing one over, the two of them settling into their seats with the ease of long practice, and for several minutes the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft hiss of the cigars being gently inhaled.  

    When he spoke, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen, Holmes’ voice was low and husky with smoke. “There were some  nights,” he began, taking  a sip of his brandy as though to wet his throat,  “that I wondered if I would ever be sat here again, warm and safe and with my dearest friend.”

    Watson took a long pull on his cigar but did not interrupt, his eyes intent on Holmes’ face as the other man stared distantly into the fire.

    “So many nights it was a wonder I saw the dawn at all, with Moriarty’s men still so damned intent on putting an end to me.  But others… There were some sights I shall never forget, Watson.  Stars so brilliant and untainted by London fog that it seemed as though I could reach out my hand and grasp them.  A moon which hung over a lake so calm I could not tell where sky ended and earth began.  Those nights were rare, and I think all the more amazing for it.”

    Watson contemplated his words thoughtfully, sipping his own drink before speaking with careful deliberation.  

    “There were nights in Afghanistan like that,” he whispered, finally turning his gaze from his friend and to the fire, his own memories on the desert landscapes which had haunted his nightmares.  “The sand was so fine and would get into everything, from your underclothes to your boots.  When the wind had a hold of it, which was often, it would grind into your skin until you felt as though you would never be clean or abrasion free again.  But  when the moon hung heavy,” he breathed, the wonder and pain still fresh in his voice, as though he were seeing the scene before him and not several years past.  “The stars filled the night, and it would be as though you were standing under a cold sun, it would be so bright.  All that sand, reflecting, like so many diamonds.  It drove some men mad, to be amongst all that nothing, but I always found it strangely beautiful.”

    “I wish I had seen it,” Holmes murmured, and his voice was thick with something that brought Watson’s head up, his vision back into the present.  Holmes eyes remained firmly fixed on the fire, though a suspicious glint mirrored the flames.  “I attempted, once, to make it Egypt.  But even there they found me, and some poor soul was shot down in the night as I escaped.  I tried to avoid trains after that.”

    “Did you have no peace, Holmes?” Watson asked softly, fighting the lump in his throat too fiercely to make his words louder.  

    “Oh, there were good days,” Holmes immediately assured, grinning his false smile that Watson hated when turned on him.  “I found a lovely village in the north of France where I played fiddle for my room and board.  I spent several months there, enjoying the fresh air and country life.”

    “You hate village life,” Watson snorted, finishing the rest of his brandy with a long swallow.   “You must have been miserable.”

    Holmes laughed, one of his silent giggles that always set Watson off as well, the two of them chortling as the heaviness and weight of the moment slowly dissipated.  

    “Indeed,” Holmes finally managed to gasp as he finished his own drink and threw his cigar end into the fire.  He wiped his eyes with his empty hand as he stood, retrieving Watson’s glass and depositing both on the dinner table.  “It was hell on Earth, with every farmer’s wife determined to throw their unwed daughters my way and no escape save to flee after three months of endless boredom.”  

    Holmes did not return to his seat, but yawned and stretched his limber frame until he was nearly bent backward.  “I am off to bed, old boy.  See you in the morning.”

    “Sleep well,” Watson called after him, the smile slowly fading from his face as he put his own cigar half in the ashtray to his left, staring in contemplative silence at the fire. He remained thus for nearly half an hour before the clock in the hall chimed, alerting him to the lateness of the night and the call of his own bed.  

    The mattress as he settled down beneath one of Mrs. Hudson’s Scottish quilts embraced him as an old lover, and though the bed was smaller than he was accustomed and the night sounds different, he drifted off almost immediately.  

    

    The next morning dawned crisp and clear, as was Spring’s mercurial habit.  The sunlight streaming through his room woke Holmes before the clock could proclaim  the hour, but from the sounds outside his window he doubted it was much before seven.

    He curled his long frame into a smaller form, enjoying the warmth of the blankets around him and the mattress that had never felt so soft.  The luxury of simply sleeping without worry or distraction still felt a novelty, and it was with reluctance that he wormed his way out of bed, hissing as his bare feet sought out slippers and he hastily wrapped his dressing gown around his shoulders.  

    When he rang for Mrs. Hudson he was not surprised to find her not only awake but bustling around the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast.  She had always been a much earlier riser than her tenants.  

    When Watson came down the stairs nearly an hour later, it was to find his friend sipping cocoa and languidly nibbling on toast, hair mussed and unshaven.  

    “Good morning,” Watson greeted, drawing his own dressing gown closer about himself as he sat down, pouring himself a cup of strong tea.  

    “Good morning,” Holmes answered absently, blinking suddenly as though only just aware that Watson had joined him.  

    Watson had to grin at the other’s expression, remembering with a small pang of nostalgia that it often took his friend longer than most men to leave his morning fog behind.  

    “I have several patients I must see to today, but I should be free for dinner around seven if you would like to go out,” Watson said, his smile growing as Holmes took a long sip of his cocoa before nodding.  

    “I am to meet Mycroft for lunch, and knowing my brother as I do, it may be some time before I feel up to more than a very light meal,” Holmes warned with a wry grin.  “If he insists I eat as much as he feels I should you will find me a very easy dinner companion.”

    Watson laughed as he prepared his plate, his worry over Holmes’ empty dishes assuaged with the knowledge of the upcoming meeting.

    “He worries about you,” he said instead, grinning at Holmes’s snort.  “A man of his size cannot help but be worried when his only sibling looks as though a harsh wind would blow him over.”  
      
    “Watson,” Holmes scolded, frowning.  “Be assured, if I ate nearly as much as my brother and you seem to think I should, I would rival him in size and you would be sore pressed to get me out the door.”

     “Holmes, the day you eat as much as I think you should is the day I know I can hang up my medical license, as I would have worked a miracle,” Watson teased.  

    Holmes’ answering grin was comment enough, and the two of them finished their respective breakfasts in quiet, only the occasional clink of fork against plate filling the silence.  

***

    The Diogenes Club had not changed in the three years of his absence, though Holmes would have been rather shocked if it had.  Those who joined a club for the unclubable generally tended to abhor change, his brother more so than most, and the dim environs were as comfortable and welcoming a sight as Baker Street had been.

    He was led immediately to the Stranger’s Room, where they could speak securely and not fear the wrath of the other club members.  Their reunion, however, was not without its own silent communication.

    “Hello, brother,” Sherlock greeted as he entered the room, making his way to the stately figure which had yet to assume a seat, embracing the large form of the only man as dear to him as his doctor.  

    “Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, his large hand patting his sibling’s back gently, as though quite aware of the strength contained within his person and uncertain of that within the other man.  “It is good to see you looking so well.”

    Holmes’ eyebrows rose as he stepped away, regarding the corpulent man before him fondly.  His expression, however, spoke more eloquently than any words as it appeared to say, “I am quite aware you have been spying on me, and I’m only here to make sure you cease.  I am alive and well, so quit hovering.”

    Mycroft’s left eyebrow rose slowly as he gestured to their seats, as though to reply, “I am your older sibling, it is my job to hover.  And you may look fine today, but last time we met you looked half dead.”

    Sherlock’s brow furrowed in answer.  “What are we having for lunch today, Mycroft?  I’m actually quite famished,” he asked aloud as he took his place at the table, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

    “A lovely roast duck with asparagus and beautifully cooked potatoes,” Mycroft answered, though his own brow conveyed a different message.  It said quite plainly, “You are only humoring me, and I know you know I know you are humoring me.  Be thankful I have not put a doctor on retainer and trust your friend with your health as I do.”

     “That sounds lovely.”

    “Yes, the cook does a masterful job.  We were quite lucky to acquire him last year.”

    There was another moment of silence as they settled and the first dishes were brought in, a palate cleanser of celery soup that steamed appetizingly as it was placed before them.  For several minutes the only sounds were those of spoons clinking and soft slurping.

    “I must say, Sherlock, it is good to see you looking so much recovered and eating like a normal person,” Mycroft  murmured as he finished his bowl, looking fondly at his brother as Holmes continued to eat slowly.  

    Sherlock’s eyebrows rose slowly as he took another spoonful, the expression clearly saying, “I know you have been spying on  me, you old goat, so don’t think I am fooled for a moment.  I will tell you in good time what you wish to know.”    

    The elder Holmes’ right eyebrow rose to his hairline and his brow furrowed, as though to ask, “You went to your doctor friend yesterday and were there for quite some time during his business hours, suggesting you were not there for idle chit-chat.  My little spies were not able to obtain the nature of your complaint, but you do not seem about to expire, so what is wrong with you?”

    Sighing, knowing he could not hope to outmaneuver his brother or avoid the topic much longer, Holmes admitted, “I have been feeling a bit under the weather, actually.  I went to see Watson yesterday, and we spent a pleasant afternoon at his practice.  It would have been a very enjoyable time if not for a small interruption.”

    Holmes stopped playing with his spoon, which he had been swirling around in the dregs of his soup, and met his brother’s gaze full on, his eyes narrowing and his mouth pursing.  Though he did not give voice to his thoughts, Mycroft understood him clearly.

    “The Irregulars are mine,” the look said.  “You took very good care of them while I was away, and I thank you for that.  But leave them to me, now, and stop using them to spy on me.”

    Mycroft raised his brows innocently, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he said, “I do hope whatever it was that disrupted your time with the doctor did not detract from the day.”

    “Not at all,” Holmes assured him pleasantly, smiling as the servants retrieved their dishes and the savory aroma of duck wafted into the room.  “It was a slight misunderstanding with one of my lads.  I’m certain it is not something I will have to concern myself with in future.”

    “Yes, some boys do require more tending to than others,” Mycroft agreed, returning the smile with one of his own.  For a moment, any who looked in upon the scene would have had no trouble discerning the family resemblance between them despite their respective sizes.  “It is always a delicate  balance to watch over them without rousing their ire.”

    “Quite so,” Holmes agreed, his smile softening as he added, “It can be difficult when they don’t always know what is best for them.”

    “Such is the dilemma for all those who care greatly for another,” Mycroft sighed, his own expression becoming something much more tender.

    “I do not know what is wrong with me,” Holmes whispered, his smile falling as he turned serious, putting their game to a rest for the moment.  “Watson is certain he knows what it is, though he has not divulged that information yet.  He has recommended a long rest and plenty of quiet, with no cases to hinder my recovery.”

    “Then you should listen to your doctor and do as he says,” Mycroft agreed, just as softly and seriously.  “You look better today than when we last saw each other, but that does not mean you look particularly well.  My Chichester estate is always at your disposal, as you well know.”

    “I do,” Holmes agreed, his lips turning up slightly as he added, “Though I do not think I am quite ready to brave Mrs. Everman just yet.”

    “Nonsense,” Mycroft laughed, the seriousness of the moment departing as quickly as it had descended.  “She is as lovely and tender as always.”

    “Mycroft, she did unspeakable things to my person the last time I visited and forced vile concoctions down my throat!” Holmes protested.

    “She gave you a sponge bath while you were near delirious with fever and then gave you the medication the doctor had prescribed.  Really, Sherlock, you are too much sometimes,” Mycroft chided, his face lighting up as the doors at the far end of the room opened and several servants entered bearing their plates and the main dish.  “But let us put aside such distasteful talk for now and enjoy this repast, shall we?”

    “Of course,” Holmes agreed, though his eyebrows lowered in one last rebuke, his gaze clearly saying, “I am keeping myself as well as can be expected, so stop spying on me and I will keep you informed.  Deal?”

    Mycroft’s grin widened in answer, and there was no more talk as the two set about enjoying the meal before them.    
      
    ***

    They spoke of lighter things as they ate, of events that had happened in Holmes’ three year absence, and the positions Mycroft had found for those Irregulars who had grown too old to be considered harmless children any longer.   

    “Mick Wiggins has taken to the telegram office splendidly,” Mycroft assured Holmes, his eyes laughing even as his expression remained wry.  He had always found it amusing how children and small animals congregated around his brother.  

    “Squeaker and Toad?” Holmes asked, his lips twitching with amusement at the names bestowed upon the young ladies by the other lads.  

    “Sarah and Antonin are housemaids in Lady Katherine Harberg’s house.  She was quite taken with them and refused to split them up, the little darlings.  I must say, Sherlock, you did train them rather well.   They had her eating out of their hands within moments,” Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head in wonderment.

    “Haha!” Holmes crowed, slapping a hand on the table in his delight.  “I always knew those two would manage, little manipulators that they are.”

    “Oh, yes.  They also, to be sure, eased the way for young Adam Delshire to be admitted to Lord Smyther’s house, as he heard nothing but praise from Lady Katherine on their performance.  He has advised me that if I have any other such treasures tucked away I am to give him first chance to acquire them, as Adam seems to make a splendid stable hand.”

    “Oh, yes.  He was always quite curious about the cab horses, asking questions until he was shooed away.  I do believe he would often help with their upkeep in the winters to make some extra money.  Resourceful bunch, my little band,” Holmes sighed, his expression at once fond and regretful as he turned back to  his plate and seemed to force another bite of duck into his mouth.

    “You did what was necessary.” Mycroft’s voice was stern as he poked his brother in the shoulder with his oversized finger, earning an exasperated eye roll.  “I swore the children would be taken care of, and they have been.  They knew the situation as well as any could, and not a one of them shall ever regret their service to either of us.  Thanks to your efforts, Sherlock, not a single Irregular has ended up in the dock once they’ve outgrown the streets.  You know better than I what an accomplishment that is.”

    “Yes, I do,” Holmes agreed, twitching his lips into a tight smile as he narrowed his eyes at his brother.  “But I am back now, so no more commandeering them for your own gains. I am their general, and as such they take their orders from me!”

    “So you have said,” Mycroft agreed, the noncommittal answer earning another narrowing of the eyes from his brother.   “Now hush,” Mycroft continued before any more could be said on the matter, “You have eaten more than your usual two bites, for which I am extremely happy, but your plate still has an overabundance of food.  Do try and finish your lunch.”

    “For your information I have a dinner arrangement with Watson tonight.  I would like to be able to do more than simply gaze at the poor chap as he eats, Mycroft.”

    “Yes, well, in that case you may be forgiven your appalling lack of appetite,” Mycroft relented.    
      
    The elder Holmes watched in silence for a few moments as his brother nibbled on his potatoes, knowing the effort he was making to please his sibling and appreciating the attempt.  When he spoke next, his voice was slightly hesitant, belying his reluctance to bring up the topic.

    “Tell me, Sherlock, how your doctor is faring.”

    “Watson appears to be in wonderful health,” Holmes answered slowly, eyes focusing on his brother with a sharpness that many found intimidating.  “His leg has been troubling him slightly due to the weather, but he appears none the worse for it.”  He paused, setting down his silverware and clasping his hands before him on the table, fingers to his lips.  “Why do you ask?”

    In a rare show of prevarication, Mycroft took a large drink from his wine glass, wiping his mouth delicately before he answered in a tone deliberately neutral.

    “He had not been faring well, some few months ago.  The children were quite worried about him, as his health seemed to be taking a turn for the worse in his grief.  However, I am much delighted to hear that the upcoming anniversary  is not affecting him overmuch.”

    For one moment Sherlock’s puzzlement shone through, his expression openly questioning before his brother’s words registered and the pieces connected themselves.  

    “Next month it will be one year,” Holmes whispered, dropping his eyes and staring at the tablecloth with unnatural determination, as though ashamed to meet his brother’s gaze any longer.

    “Yes,” Mycroft agreed, softly, regretfully.  “He did not take her passing well, though I believe his mourning was already quite established, and her death was but one more sorrow he struggled to deal with.”

    Throughout his life, Mycroft Holmes had never wished to harm his brother by either word or deed.  That he had done so now he knew by the shaking of slender shoulders and tightly clasped hands.  

    Without speaking he covered those delicate fingers with his flipper-like appendage, keeping his grasp firm until Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his gaze.

    Mycroft had known his words would produce a painful reaction, for which he was immensely regretful.   But as one who had borne the weight of being Sherlock Holmes’ protector, he also knew that sometimes the one his brother needed protecting from was himself.  Without being forearmed with the knowledge of his doctor’s sorrow, it would be all too easy for his younger sibling to wound without meaning to.  And some hurts were not easily able to be mended.

    He gazed into his brother’s eyes, knowing he could never say with words what he hoped was discernable from his expression.  “I did not tell you this to hurt you, nor do I want you to dwell on this.  Think, before you speak, and treat your doctor with the gentleness he has shown you.  Give him your time and patience, and be gentle on yourself, as well.  

    The lines around Sherlock’s eyes softened for a moment as he regarded his older sibling, taking in the grey hair, the rounded stomach, and the expression of fond worry which seemed to fill the care-worn face.  He nodded, once, the barest tilting of his head,  and was rewarded with a twitch of the lips and a gentle squeeze of his hands before Mycroft sat back.

    “Now then, we shall speak no more of such things, for I fear I have put you off your feed.  Please, dear boy, do try and finish at least what is on your plate.  You are wasting away before my eyes,” Mycroft scolded, setting an example by spearing a potato and eating it happily.  

    Holmes smiled indulgently at his sibling, though his stomach was already feeling uncomfortably distended and he knew better than to try and force more food down his throat.      
      
    “I believe I had best leave off for now,” Sherlock murmured softly, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled in rueful good humor.  “I would not wish the doctor to dine alone tonight, and I am feeling quite full.  If I don’t make a token effort at whatever we shall have, he will be most worried.”

    “Two meals in one day!  Good heavens, Sherlock, whatever shall you do?” Mycroft teased.  “Tell me then, how was your concert last night?  We have not spoken of such things lately, and I am much interested in hearing your account.”

    Smiling, relaxing fully back into his chair, Holmes launched into a glowing review of the previous evening, his eyes alight as his hands motioned gracefully to emphasize his points.  

    For the remainder of their lunch they spoke of such inconsequentials, and when Sherlock left his brother dozing in a chair, it was with a faint smile about his lips and a lightness to his steps.

***

    He spent the better part of that afternoon curled up on his bed under a warm quilt, napping peacefully.  When Mrs. Hudson woke him a little after five, tapping at his door with a broad smile on her face, he could not help but return the expression as he stretched languidly and set about preparing himself for that night’s supper.  

    He made it to the restaurant ten minutes before seven, freshly scrubbed, shaved, and wearing one of Watson’s finer shirts and waistcoats that no longer fit him.  Though by no means robust, Watson had gained half a stone in Holmes’ absence, and to the detective’s eye his frame looked all the healthier for it.  

    When the doctor joined him a few moments later, dressed in his black frock coat and white shirt which he tended to favor when ministering to his patients, Holmes smiled brilliantly up at him.

    “I had wondered if you would find those two a fit,” Watson grinned as he sat, eyeing his friend’s svelte frame appreciatively.  “I must say, they look better on you than they ever did on me.”

    “Nonsense,” Holmes teased.  “You just lack the appropriate essence to fill them out correctly.”

    “Well, I can certainly attest to the fact that you are filled with something,” Watson agreed, straight faced.  “Though whether that adds to the clothing or not is another matter.”

    Holmes gave a mock glare as the waiting staff descended, and dinner passed quickly amongst their friendly banter and meandering discussions.  Though he had intended to eat only slightly, Holmes found himself once more uncomfortably full at the end of the meal.

    He blamed Watson entirely for this fact, which he made sure to voice as they left the crowded building and stepped out into the cool night air.

    “How so?” Watson demanded, donning his gloves as they spent a moment breathing in the thick, coal scented night.  

    “If you hadn’t kept demanding I try bites of your supper, I would not nearly be so full,” Homes chastised, rubbing his stomach slightly.  “Honestly, Watson, I think I ate more of your dinner than my own.”

    “Nonsense,” Watson scoffed, though his lips twitched under his mustache and he looked away, coughing into his hand suspiciously.  “I merely wanted you to try the beef, and you have to admit that bread was simply wonderful.”

    “Yes, quite so. And so were the greens you insisted I attempt and the mushrooms,” Holmes agreed wryly.  

    Watson grinned at him, and for one moment it felt as though Holmes could not breathe, so open was the happiness on his friend’s face.

    “Are you staying at Baker Street tonight?” he asked after a moment, eyes wandering over those who milled about with them, waiting for cabs or simply enjoying the night air after their meal.  

    “Not tonight, old cock.  I’ve only a day or two left at Cavendish Place and I - I have a few things to tidy up before I turn it over to the new doctor.”  Watson’s voice faltered, though only for a moment, and his expression became neutral once more.  

    For Holmes, who knew every facet of his friend, the unspoken message was quite clear.  Watson had begun his married life in that home, and had seen its end there as well.  If he wished to say his farewells in private, Holmes was not going to make the task any more difficult than  necessary.

    “Understood, old boy,” he agreed quietly, touching Watson’s arm briefly above the elbow in sympathy.  “Baker Street will be waiting when you are ready.”

    Watson smiled thankfully as he covered Holmes’ hand with his own, the two of them silent amongst the noises of the world around them.  

    Clearing his throat, Holmes patted the doctor on the shoulder lightly and said, “I had best be off to home, then.  I fear I am unaccustomed to so much food and shall end up asleep on my feet.”

    “Then be off with you, and I’ll see you Saturday.  Most of my things are boxed up and waiting, and the movers should have no trouble.”

    “On Saturday,” Holmes agreed, and the two separated, Holmes to walk the short distance to Baker Street, and Watson to hail a cab.

***

    Holmes retired shortly after eleven, though his sleep was not restful.  Near dawn, when the world was still an inky black through his curtains, he awoke from a nightmare of being hunted, corpses littering his path and the baying of hounds ringing in his ears.  He did not stir at first, hands curled tightly into fists, breathing labored as though he had been sprinting, and his insides cramping with terrible pain.  

    He lay still for several minutes, trying to calm the pounding of his heart and catch his breath before he attempted to make his way groggily to the water closet, where he spent a miserable ten minutes, shivering and curling in on himself.  When the episode passed he made his way back to bed, legs wobbly and head pounding.  Though his stomach continued to grumble, he soon found himself drifting back to an exhausted slumber.  
      
    Several times he awoke between that first horrifying episode and Mrs. Hudson moving around in the next room, laying out his breakfast with unhurried practice.  Though the nightmare had not been repeated, it had been replicated to a lesser degree as he slept, and his eyes felt gritty and sore as he made his way gingerly out from under the covers.

    “Mr. Holmes?”

    He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing in his doorway, a worried frown marring her expressive face as she gazed at him critically.  

    “I’ve laid toast and coffee out for you, but if you want to have a  bit of a lie in, it will certainly keep.”  

    “No, thank you, Nanny.  I think I have done enough sleeping for now,” Holmes assured her, fidgeting slightly as his stomach sent a warning pang through his gut.  “I shall be out in a bit.”

    She nodded, casting one last questioning look over her shoulder as she left, but keeping her peace.  Holmes waited a moment longer to make certain she had departed before making his way hastily to the toilet again, cursing both his brother and Watson as he did so.

    The second attack of the ‘summer complaint’ was just as miserable as his first. After, he made his way hesitantly to the table, ignoring the toast and instead pouring a generous cup of coffee.  

    He drank lazily, enjoying the relative quiet of the morning as he perused the paper left conveniently by the toast holder.  He found himself frowning as he scanned the various sections, finding nothing of interest and thinking it just as well that Watson had forbidden him from working any cases, as there seemed to be a dearth of anything interesting, at all, in London.  

    By noon he had finished with the paper and was happily mixing chemicals at his table, humming softly as he measured and weighed different substances. A distant part of his brain remembered how his brother had once referred to his hobby as “playing,” and he could not deny the feeling was very similar.  

    Though his stomach remained upset he was mostly able to ignore his inner turmoil.  Twice he had to hastily abandon his experiments, though, and both times left him wondering briefly if there had been something amiss with his dinner.   Those thoughts were easily pushed aside as irrelevant, however, and when Mrs. Hudson brought up tea, he found himself smiling up at her, his expression widening as she tutted over the untouched toast and took the empty coffee carafe away.    

    “Really, Mr. Holmes, it will be a pleasure to have someone who actually enjoys my cooking in the house again,” she sighed, glaring at his innocent expression as she left, admonishing, “Make sure you finish those.”

    His mind still preoccupied with his experiment, Holmes waved her off even as he found himself nibbling at half a  sandwich absently, staring with narrowed eyes at the beaker bubbling merrily above the burner.  If his hypothesis was correct, he might be able to distinguish varying cigar ash in a solution that would eliminate the need for those in the Yard to call upon his expertise.  With a bit of practice they would be able to tell, to a limited degree, certain brands from others.  

    Finishing his tea, he returned to the lab table, muttering softly under his breath as he tweaked and studied.  It had been so long since he had last been afforded the luxury to experiment that he found himself almost giddy with the freedom of it.  

    His stomach chose that moment to make itself known in a vicious agony, and he found himself bent nearly double at the suddenness of it.  One hand gripped the smooth wooden edge of the table as the other unconsciously went to his middle, where an ominous rumble gurgled loudly.

    “Bloody hell,” he grit out between clenched teeth, dashing to the water closet and closing the door with more force than was necessary, cursing soundly as his body rebelled and he found himself bathed in a cold sweat.  

    “Never again,” he moaned to himself, curled over his knees as he shivered, once more mentally cursing Mycroft and Watson and promising he would never eat in their presence again if this was his repayment.

    The attack seemed to last longer than the others, and a queasiness left him covering his mouth with a shaking hand as he fought to keep the nausea at bay.  When he was finally able to stand, his stomach felt hollowed out and sore, as though he had been punched several times, and to his annoyance his legs were weak.  Never in his life had he been more thankful for the marvel which made up the whole of indoor plumbing.

    He made his way unsteadily back to the sitting room and over to the nearest window, throwing it open with more force than was necessary and leaning his head out into the bright sunshine.  He scanned the street for a moment before finding what he sought, whistling sharply to get the child’s attention.  

    The boy looked up instantly from where he had been loitering, immediately leaving his position by the game of marbles he had been observing and making his way across the street, knocking loudly without hesitation to be admitted.

    When Mrs. Hudson answered the door a moment later she eyed the street urchin before her with a stern gaze.  

    “If you track mud up my stairs I expect you to clean it,” she said as she stood aside, letting the child in and closing the door swiftly behind him.  “Go straight up.”

    Nodding once and grinning cheekily, the lad scrambled up the steps, his eyes only briefly taking in the luxury around him and stilling the twitch in his fingers.  No one stole from Mr. Holmes’ house and remained an  Irregular.  

    The detective was waiting for him at the top of the landing, looking sickly and pale in his dressing gown and trousers.  His shirt was stained black at the cuffs, and his hair looked fit to rival Mud’s.

    “Thomas,” Holmes greeted him as he led the lad inside to the sitting room, moving gingerly to sit heavily upon the settee.  “Still keeping an eye on me?”

    “Course,” Thomas admitted easily, keeping to himself the thought that the man looked as though he needed it now more than ever, though his musings were plain on his face for Holmes to see.

    “I would like you to run a small errand for me.  Doctor Watson is with patients today, so you need not bother him.   However, if you would be so kind as to take from his medical bag or practice, whichever you can attain access to the easiest, I need you to retrieve a bottle of laudanum for me,” Holmes explained curtly.

    He reached into his dressing gown and withdrew a coin and a small bottle, tossing both to the boy.  “That bottle is what you are looking for.  Bring it back within the hour and there will be another shilling for you.”

    For a moment Thomas studied the bottle in his hand, mouthing the letters carefully as he tried to make out the label.  His sandy hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away absently before looking back to Holmes with a frown.

    “Shouldn’t the Doctor give it to ye?” he asked.  

    “He is very busy right now, Thomas,” Holmes chided gently, shifting slightly and grimacing.  The boy’s eyes widened slightly at the uncharacteristic display of weakness before schooling his expression.  “I do not want to interrupt him for so trivial a thing.  However, if you do not wish the -”

    “Course I’ll do it!” Thomas protested, scowling.  “Just seemed wrong to me, to sneak it like.”

    “He is coming over tomorrow, at which time I will let him know I used it. Really, Thomas,” Holmes began, frowning, “I can always have another of the lads -”

    “I said I would do it!” Thomas reiterated forcefully, tucking the bottle into his pocket.  “Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes.  I’ll get yer medicine!”

    The boy cast one more appraising look at the man before he darted out, feet clattering down the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s admonishment to slow down lost to the banging of the door as it shut. Holmes sighed as he settled back into the settee, forcing down the small twinge of guilt trying to lodge in his chest.  

    Watson would be back in Baker Street tomorrow, and he could tell the doctor then what he had done.  There was no reason to disturb his last day of taking patients at Cavendish Place with such  a trifle, and it would only lead him to worry.

    Satisfied with his reasoning, Holmes levered himself up and made his way back to his chemicals, where he hoped he would be able to finish his solution before another bout of unpleasantness set in.  

***

    Forty-seven minutes later found him once more in the water closet, teeth gritted as he contemplated uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Hudson’s sandwiches, when he heard the door to the study open.

    Sighing in relief even as he curled tighter into himself, he was about to call out to Thomas when Watson’s voice floated in to  him.

    “Holmes?  Are you all right?”

    The doctor’s voice came from outside the door, and despite his misery Holmes buried his face in his hands.

    “I’ll be with you shortly, Watson,” he called, rubbing his forehead wearily as he considered the little urchin who would not be receiving any assignments in the near future.  “I’m fine, old boy,” he added through a clenched jaw.  

    “Holmes, Thomas told me you were looking rather sickly and had asked him to inquire about some laudanum for you.  Is it the summer complaint, old cock?” Watson asked gently.

    “Watson, I’m fine.  Please, don’t concern yourself.  I’ll be out shortly.”  The last was said in a volume only slightly less than a yell, and Holmes had to fight the urge to bang his fist against the wall.  He was never trusting the little brat again!

    “Holmes, I’m not leaving until I’ve had a look at you, but please don’t rush.  I’ll be reading the newspaper until you‘re ready.”  A gentle tap at the door signaled Watson’s retreat, and Holmes once more found himself reduced to a shivering mess as he tried to suppress a groan.  

    When he emerged several minutes later, face carefully set in a neutral expression, it was to find Watson sat in his chair, newspaper folded back as he perused the articles.  As soon as Holmes made his way into the sitting room, however, he set the paper aside and cast a professional eye over his friend.  

    “Watson,” Holmes greeted him as he made his way to the settee, his movements careful and slow.

    “You look horrid,” Watson observed conversationally.  

    Holmes scowled back at him and crossed his legs primly, reaching for his pipe and matches.  

    “How many times have you been indisposed today?” Watson asked, not the least slighted by his friend’s silence.  When Holmes refused to answer, he leaned forward, hands on knees as he tried to catch his eye.  “Three?  Four?”  At Holmes’ lack of response he pursed his lips and frowned.  “I take it by your silence it was more than four, which is certainly cause for some laudanum.  Why don’t you go lay down and I’ll prepare a dose for you?”

    “I’m fine,” Holmes protested, puffing on his pipe determinedly and refusing to meet Watson’s gaze.  “I believe I merely ate too much yesterday.  That is the last time I allow my brother to persuade me to have a meal with him for some time, let me assure you.”

    “You were fine at dinner last night, and seeing as I ate a bit of everything from your plate, and you from mine, we can rule out the food from the restaurant.  When did the symptoms start?”  Watson waited a moment for Holmes to respond before sighing heavily and standing.  He made his way through the accumulated piles which seemed to have developed overnight and sat next to his friend, firmly turning Holmes’ head to look at him.

    “Sherlock Holmes, I am a doctor and your friend.  I know that this malady can be somewhat embarrassing, but I only wish to be of assistance.  Now please, answer my questions so I may help you get better.”  Though his voice was steady, Watson could not keep the slight hint of exasperation from creeping into his entreaty.

    “Before dawn,” Holmes sighed reluctantly.  He met Watson’s gaze briefly before grimacing and placing his pipe in the ashtray beside the settee.  “The attacks have been off and on since then.”

    “Thank you.”  Though said softly, the words were no less heartfelt or sincere.  “Have you eaten or drunk anything today?”

    “Some coffee this morning, and a sandwich for lunch,” Holmes admitted.    
      
    He had begun to shift slightly in his seat, and Watson, recognizing the signs of distress, pressed on swiftly.  

    “Let me prepare you the laudanum while you take care of business.  When you come back I want you to lay down.”  At his friend’s questioning eyebrow, Watson smiled slightly.  “I am a doctor, Holmes.  Go, and when you return we’ll see about putting you back to rights.”

    Hesitating a moment, Holmes finally acquiesced, the demands of his body outweighing his dignity, and he retreated to the water closet quickly.  As soon as he had closed the door, Watson retrieved his bag from where he had left it by the entranceway, preparing a small dosage of the bitter drink and a glass of cool water from the pitcher in Holmes’ room.  When the detective emerged several minutes later, looking haggard and weary, Watson handed him both drinks without comment.

    Downing the laudanum gratefully, Holmes swiftly finished off the water and then made his way to his room, Watson trailing behind.

    “I had not meant to pull you away from  your patients,” Holmes murmured  as he wiggled his way under his blankets.  

    “I did not have any when Thomas tapped at my window,” Watson assured him, pulling out his stethoscope as his friend made himself comfortable.  “My last patient finished shortly before noon, and I was merely packing up the odds and ends in my study.”

    “Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, his eyes flickering shut as the other listened to the sounds of his stomach for several minutes.

    “There’s a bit of disturbance, but that should settle down soon enough,” Watson murmured, putting the stethoscope away.  “Try and get some rest.  I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know that you’re to have broth for dinner, and if you’re up to it, some tea later on.”

    “You don’t have to,” Holmes grumbled, shifting onto his side and trying to focus bleary eyes on his friend.  “I’m fine, Watson.”

    “Of course you are, old cock.  Try and get some rest, now.”  

    Holmes tried to resist the pull of sleep, but within moments his eyes closed and his breathing settled.  Watson ran a hand through the tangle of hair, smiling gently at the soft snores which started a moment later.  He remained by his friend’s side, running his hand through the curls and up and down his back for nearly a quarter hour, before reluctantly pulling himself away to pass along his instructions to Mrs. Hudson.  
***

    It was nearing eight when Watson returned that night, having spent the remainder of his day boxing up the loose ends of his house.  Though Cavendish Place had not truly felt like a home for some time, the imminent leaving of it left him drained and out of sorts.  He would be relieved when the removers finished the job for him tomorrow, bringing the items which constituted his material life back to Baker Street.

    He knocked out of courtesy for Hrs. Hudson, though he had been a given a key the day Holmes revealed himself still alive, and was greeted at the door with a smile.  The landlady, taking his coat and hat, updated him on his soon-to-be-again fellow lodger.

    “He’s slept for the most part after you left, only woke a few times to eat the broth I made.  He looked terribly befuddled, Doctor,” she added,  her tone not quite questioning though clearly seeking assurance that her most irascible tenant was going to be well again.

    “He should be more his usual self in the morning.”  Watson smiled gently down at her as he made his way to the stairs.  “It was just a mild upset, that’s all.”

    Mrs. Hudson nodded as they parted, she to her room and Watson upstairs, moving quietly so as not to disturb his still slumbering friend.  When he entered the sitting room a warm fire greeted him, no doubt laid by Mrs. Hudson, and there was a covered tray on the dinning table.  When he lifted the lid, the warm scent of baked bread and beef filled the air, his mouth watering as he grinned at the much put upon lady’s foresight.  

    Replacing the lid for the moment, he crept quietly to Holmes’ room, the door slightly ajar, and when he pushed it open far enough to catch a glimpse of the occupant he found his smile widening.   

    Wrapped up as snugly as any child in several blankets, Holmes slept peacefully, mouth slightly open as snuffling snores floated out to his hidden watcher. One hand curled under his chin, the other just visible as a lump across his stomach.  

    His worry allayed for the moment, Watson returned to the sitting room and set upon the dinner left for him, firmly pushing aside the thought that it had been far too long since anyone had cooked for him with something more than professional self-interest in mind.  

***

     He awoke instantly, the soft touch on his arm bringing him upright as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes.  For one disoriented moment he could not remember where he was, the sitting room taking shape only slowly around him.  When recognition came, he realized he was sprawled on the settee, Holmes peering down at him with a bemused expression.

    “Although the settee is comfortable to a point, that cannot be doing your shoulder or leg any good, Watson,” Holmes murmured, moving the candle he held back slightly to illuminate his face.  

    Outside the windows was still perfect blackness, and Watson wondered at the time as he scratched his stubbled chin sleepily.

    “It is nearly four, dear boy.”  As was his habit, Holmes answered his thoughts, a trick Watson still found slightly confounding.  “Why don’t you retire to my room for the rest of the night?  I fear I am all slept out, and shan’t be able to do anything more productive in there than stare at the ceiling.  Go on,” Holmes urged at Watson’s seeming reluctance, placing a guiding hand under his elbow and helping his friend stand.  “Go get some proper sleep and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to see to the movers.”

    “You’re feeling better?” Watson asked, still groggy and yet determined to put his mind to rest on the subject before allowing himself to give in to his exhaustion.  

    “Much, thanks to you,” Holmes agreed, smiling gently as he pressed his hand against the doctor’s, the two of them standing in the doorway to the bedroom as though hesitant to be the first to break the contact. “Go now, and get some rest.”

    For one moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, and Watson felt a stirring in his heart he had thought never to experience again.  Then he turned, suddenly uncertain, and made his way into the bedroom without another word.  He was acutely aware of Holmes, a shadow in the doorway illuminated by the banked fire and the candle still held aloft, and tried to ignore the building flutters in his stomach as he crawled into the bed.  

    When he curled up under Holmes’ still body-warmed blankets the scent of his friend surrounded him, a blend of strong tobacco and the slightly sulfurous odor of chemicals, overlaid with a lemon pomade.    It was a comforting cocoon of sensation from which he wondered, as he slid slowly into restless slumber, if he ever wanted to emerge.    
      
***

    The next morning found the household in a flurry of activity.  True to his word, Holmes had awakened Watson shortly after seven, and the two had dined quickly on Mrs. Hudson’s eggs and toast, nearly scalding their tongues on the coffee in their haste to make it to Cavendish Place before the movers arrived.  

    “You don’t have to come,” Watson had protested half-heartedly, but Holmes had merely scoffed and continued to dress in one of Watson’s old shirts and a waistcoat the doctor had never seen before.  

    “I am perfectly fine this morning, Watson, and unless you object to my presence for other reasons, I would be honored to help you to keep the men in line.”

    Watson snorted a laugh, and there was nothing more said on the matter.  When they arrived at Cavendish Place, Watson entered the building that had been his home, both in marriage and later as a widower, with a step that was neither hesitant nor eager, but filled with determination.    

    The memories which held sway as he moved from room to room, taking care of the last minute details,  were ghosts which lingered even in the daylight, and he found himself grateful for Holmes’ presence on more than one occasion.

    There was the bedroom where he had made love to his wife until she was too sickly to enjoy any but the most professional touch, and there was the room he had slept in when she had passed, too overcome by grief to sleep where she perished.  The study, always his own and rarely touched by Mary’s presence, had been his refuge when Holmes’ passing, and then hers,  had become too much.  It was in this room that he had wept as he pored over previous case notes and marital memories in sorrow filled nostalgia.  

    Even the sitting room held both fond and terrible memories, for it was there that Holmes had nearly begged him to accompany him to the continent, and it was where his wife had held him in her soft arms when he returned, lost and bereft.   

    He had not realized he was staring vacantly into space, one hand clutching the back of a chair fiercely, until Holmes’ gentle touch brought him back to himself, raising his eyes to meet those of his friend.  

    For all that Holmes had never truly accepted his life as a married man, once he had come to terms with it he had done his best to support Watson, granting Mary a charming civility that nevertheless kept her at a distance, and rarely visiting save for when he was in a particularly jocular mood.  

    Now, walking with the miracle that was his friend alive and warm beside him, Watson felt the finality of returning to Baker Street settling into his bones, like a warm coat one did not know they needed until they donned it and the cold was no longer felt.  

    “It was a good life,” he whispered, turning away from the detective so he could blink the moisture from his eyes in private.  “But I suppose it is high time I -”

    “Hush now,” Holmes scolded, and the gentleness in his tone was something Watson had never heard before, a hesitant support that held neither pity nor scorn.  “This was your home, dear boy.  It was your life, and it shall always remain a part of you.  Just as those sands of the desert you spoke of shall remain a part of you.  There is no shame in accepting that, or - or  mourning its loss.”

    For one moment Watson believed he could hold himself together, that the memories and the sorrow would not overwhelm him as they had so many times before.  Then Holmes stood behind him, warm arms enveloping him in a strong support that he had not realized he longed for, and he found himself sobbing, there in the bright morning sunlight of what used to be his sitting room.

    For all the tears he had shed at both Holmes’ and Mary’s death, the ones dampening the material of Holmes’ frock coat were the only ones which he was not ashamed of.  

***

    Nothing was said of Watson’s momentary lapse, and after a strong cup of tea the two men set about finishing the preparations.  When the movers arrived at half ten, everything that was being moved to Baker Street was boxed and waiting in the hall, while those items deemed too large or extraneous were left for the next inhabitant.  A third pile, small though no less important, sat in what Watson still considered his waiting room.

    These were the pieces of furniture which would not fit into Baker Street, yet held too much sentimental value to be sold or given away.  These would go into the lumber room above his own room, which had remained vacant and little more than a place to gather dust since he had moved out all those years before.     
      
    “Watson, forgive me my lack of observation, but where has your maid got to?” Holmes asked, gazing around the house with an air of confusion.  

    “She has the weekend off.  I thought it would be best to say our goodbyes yesterday, and when she comes in on Monday, she’ll be preparing the house for the new tenant.  Why?”  Watson glanced over to his friend with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, all traces of grief erased.

    “I was just wondering at the lack of weeping and hysterics.”  The wry tone had Watson hard pressed not to laugh, and Holmes deliberately turned his back with an air of offended dignity.  

    “Don’t worry, Holmes,” Watson assured him, not trying to hide his grin.  “You won’t be troubled by any weeping women today.  Not unless we find one on the steps of Baker Street.”

    “Bite your tongue,” Holmes snapped, giving a mock shudder.  “Besides, I have been forbidden by my doctor to engage in any cases, and I fear she would be left there to take out  her sorrows on our steps.  What would the neighbors think?”

    “That you had well and truly returned?” Watson asked with a laugh, and only barely ducked the pillow thrown at his head.  When something crashed behind him, both men froze before sharing a horrified gaze and then dissolving into helpless laughter.  

***

    The next few weeks passed in relative peace and quiet, the two men settling into familiar habits and gradually relearning how to live with each other.  Watson generally woke earlier than Holmes, and tended to have a hearty breakfast before setting about his day.  Though no longer seeing patients at his practice, he still retained a few whom he visited on house calls, and when not engaged with medicine, he would often spend hours at his club, playing billiards and gossiping with his acquaintances.

    Holmes, when he rose in time to dine with his fellow lodger, was his usual prickly self, and would often refrain from speech until he had imbibed his morning drink and allowed his great brain time to wake up.  Since he had been forbidden to take any cases save for the most trivial matters, he found himself engrossed in his chemical studies, oftentimes losing track of all around him until Watson forcibly removed him from the table to eat.  

    Though he still spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping away the afternoons when not completely engrossed, he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a form of insomnia had recently crept into his nighttime sleeping habits, and the past three nights had found him awake at three in the morning, restlessly wandering the sitting room or playing with his chemicals until the dawn started to break, at which point  he would retire to bed and sleep until he heard stirrings outside his door.  
      
    Fearing the reaction should he tell Watson of this new development, and convincing himself that it was an aberration that would correct itself shortly, Holmes found himself sinking into a black mood.

    On the fourth such night of sleepless wanderings, he found himself outside Watson’s room, the darkness pressing about him as he opened the door just enough to eye the sprawled figure on the bed.  

    He had helped to settle the heavy furniture when Watson returned to Baker Street, though his offer of assistance in unpacking the smaller items had been politely refused.  Remembering his brother’s words, and not wishing to upset his friend again so soon after his tearful breakdown at Cavendish Place, Holmes had retreated gracefully to putter about the sitting room, unloading boxes of books and arranging them how he saw fit until Watson had descended some several hours later and redone the entire bookshelf.  

    He had not been back in Watson’s room since.   

    Now, with not even a candle to illuminate the hidden treasures of his friend’s life, Holmes gazed fondly at the slumbering form, grateful that he had been afforded the luxury of having his friend back under the same roof, where he had always held firm that he belonged.  He held no grudge against Mary, and he mourned for her passing because Watson mourned, but he could not honestly say that he would miss her.  

    The two of them had reached an unspoken agreement after the marriage, and both had been very careful to maintain a civil demeanor around the other.  But Holmes knew then, as he knew now, that Watson belonged to him in a way no other could ever claim.  

    It had been a small comfort on lonely nights spent by the fire, when his mind rebelled against the stagnation of the world around him, but he had clung to the belief with all that he had in the hopes that one day his Watson would see reason and return to him.  He had never put a name to the feeling, and he was hesitant to do so now, but watching the softly snoring man before him, he was tempted to call it love.  

***

    Holmes’ insomnia continued for the next several nights, and he found his temper slowly fraying around the edges.  Though he continued to be plagued by exhaustion during the day, he was fighting harder against the hours-long naps which had sustained him to that point, hoping to wear his body down enough to sleep.  It was proving a fruitless effort, however, and all too often he found himself wandering about the sitting room late at night, his fingers itching to play his violin even as he fought the temptation.  

    It would never do to wake the household, he reminded himself as his eyes sought the case which held his most prized possession.   He had resisted the temptation for four nights running, but the late hour seemed more oppressive than usual, and his head ached with lack of sleep.  Perhaps if he merely held the instrument, the urge to release some of his pent up frustration would dissipate.      

    The wood of the Stradivarius glowed in the faint light from the fire’s embers, its grain smooth as silk against his fingertips.  When he settled his chin against the chin rest, the metal was cool against his skin, and for one moment he closed his eyes and breathed in the unique scent of rosin and varnished wood.   When his fingers rested against the strings the taut catgut settled into patterns along the calluses of his hand, and without thought or effort he had the instrument tuned and waiting for his instruction.  

    Finally giving in to the urge which had been growing steadily with each sleepless night, Holmes began to play.

    The melodies seemed to flow out of him, a floodgate which had been opened and the contents which had been held captive fleeing into the night.   He could not have stopped himself even if he desired, and as the music flowed from his soul, he did not wish to.  

    As he played the troubles of the night slipped away, lost in the flow and ebb of sound which yearned to be let out.  Gone were the thoughts which circled endlessly through his mind as he stared unseeing at his ceiling.  Gone were the aches and pains in his chest and joints, the long abuse of his journey finally healing.  

    Gone was the sleepless worry that he was slowly losing his mind, his deductive abilities,  and his health.  Only the music existed for him, pouring from his fingers into the Stradivarius as though they were an amalgam of flesh and wood, muscle and string.  

    He played until his fingers began to cramp and his breath felt caught in his chest.  He played until the candle stuttered and died, and the light creeping in from the window illuminated the sitting room with shadowed hesitancy.  He played until he could play no more, and only when he stopped did he realize that he was not alone.

    Watson sat comfortably in his chair before the fire, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his frame, eyes circled from lack of rest, and hair still disarrayed from sleep.  Before he was able to compose himself, a moment only, Holmes recognized the look of longing on  his countenance, of desire kept in check and the mourning of the troubles he had seen in his life.   

    Then the expression was changed to one of neutral curiosity, and Holmes wondered if this, too, had been a trick of his mind.

    For a long minute the silence stretched between them, all the louder for the music which had filled the room moments before.  

    “I’m sorry, Watson, for disturbing you,” Holmes whispered, bringing the violin to his chest and holding it protectively in front of him, bow clutched in his hand.  “I had not meant to -  that is, I had not thought I would play until I held it in my -”

    “How long have you not been sleeping, Holmes?” Watson interrupted gently, leaning forward as he gazed into his friend’s eyes.  “You look horrid, old boy.”

    Holmes snorted, turning to look outside the window.  He did not answer immediately, choosing instead to let his gaze wander around the sitting room, taking in the shadows of that which comprised his home.  Watson allowed him the moment to gather his thoughts, and when Holmes finally broke the silence with a resigned huff, knew that his friend was done prevaricating.  

    “A few days now.  Maybe a week,” Holmes admitted softly, unable to meet the doctor’s concerned eyes.  “I had hoped it would resolve itself if I refrained from sleeping so much during the day, but I have found it… difficult… to do so.  And even on the days I do, it does not lend itself to a restful slumber.”  
      
    Watson’s sigh was very familiar, one of patient fondness tinged with exasperation.  

    “So you had thought to wander the sitting room like a ghost until the sun came up, and then hide in your room until you could present the façade of having obtained a decent night’s rest.  Holmes, I do wish  you would trust me.”  Watson stood and moved to stand before his friend, taking the violin from his hands and gently placing it back in its case upon the settee.  “Did it not occur to you that I may have been able to help?”

    “I did not wish to worry you,” Holmes protested, placing a trembling hand on his friend’s shoulder, turning him so the two of them stood face to face, separated by the smallest of margins.  Watson’s breath puffed warm against his cheek, awakening an awareness in the detective of how very cold he had become while playing.  “I do trust you,” he insisted, trying to project all the sincerity of his heart into  his eyes, forcing Watson to meet his gaze.  “I do.”

    They stood there, too close in the silent room, Holmes shaking with cold and all the suppressed worry which seemed to have flooded back into his being after the music had stopped.  Watson regarded the other man closely, taking in every minute detail, his mouth growing thinner and more pinched as the light steadily grew.  

    “Then trust me when I say that you are exhausted and need to rest, and if that requires you to sleep the daylight hours away, then you are to do so.  And playing violin at five in the morning may be a productive way to spend the night, but there are others who do enjoy sleeping a tad more than you, old cock.  Please, Holmes, for my peace of mind and Mrs. Hudson’s nerves, the next time you are unable to sleep, let me know and I will give you something.”

    The doctor’s hand reached up to cover Holmes’, which had remained resting lightly upon his shoulder.  

    “Now do you think you can rest for a few hours?  Breakfast won’t be up until later, and I for one could use a bit more sleep.  Come on, to your bed.”  Gently, Watson took the hand beneath his and led his friend to the bedroom, where he released him and watched as he made his way wearily through the piles of clothes on the floor.  Only after Holmes was bundled up and curled on his side did he turn to go. “If you need anything, you have only to call,” Watson reminded him over his shoulder, closing the door softly as he headed to his own bed and a few more hours of longed-for sleep.  

    “I know,” Holmes whispered, eyes closed against the encroaching dawn.  “I have always known, Watson.”  

***

    Neither man mentioned the late night discussion at breakfast that morning, and though Holmes braced himself for a thorough rebuke from Mrs. Hudson, none came.  The landlady smiled sweetly at him as she placed his cup of cocoa on the table, and when he stared after her suspiciously, gave him her own patented innocent expression.  Watson hid  his smile behind his tea, though once Holmes had returned his attention to his breakfast, he caught the quick wink she threw his way and had to smother his laugh with a cough.  

    “Any plans for the day, old boy?” he asked at Holmes’ raised eyebrow, deciding discretion was the better part of valor.  

    “I fear you know the extent of my plans for the foreseeable future,” Holmes grumbled, sipping his cocoa with a frown, chin resting in hand as his eyebrows scrunched in suppressed irritation.

    “Do try to be a little gentler with yourself, Holmes,” Watson sighed.  “There is no shame in recovering from the kind of trials you have endured.”

    Holmes refrained from answering, pointedly keeping his eyes down so as not to look at the doctor’s expression of entreaty.  Knowing when to leave well enough alone, Watson turned back to his eggs, taking several careful bites before saying, “I have a few errands of my own to attend to.  Should you need anything, I’ll be at my club this afternoon, though I’ll be home for supper.”

    A warmth filled his chest at the words, and he hastily turned his attention back to his plate lest Holmes pick up on it.  Too long had Cavendish Place been merely a house to hang his hat at the end of the day.  Only here, sitting with his friend as he enjoyed a well cooked meal, did he feel as though he were truly home.  No ghosts lingered in his memory to form a lump in his throat, and though Holmes was silent, he was a steadfast presence.    

    Holmes hummed his agreement to Watson’s announcement, reaching over absently to take one of the doctor’s buttered and jam covered pieces of toast.   Watson raised an eyebrow at the theft, though did not comment.  If stealing from his friend’s plate had the detective eating, Watson would not dissuade him.  

    The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence, neither man needing to fill the quiet with empty words, and it was with an absent minded pat that Holmes departed to his own room to finish his morning ablutions.  

    When he returned to the sitting room after a wash and shave, dressing gown wrapped around fresh trousers and shirt, it was to find that Watson had already departed.  Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the plates, though a teapot rested on the table in their place.

    For a few moments Holmes thought longingly of his Morocco case, once more safely ensconced in the drawer of his desk.  But though he had resorted to the seven percent solution during torturous days when remaining silent and still had been a necessity for survival, he had long since given up on the syringe as a method to counteract boredom.  

    Still… He found himself drawn to the drawer, long fingers running lightly over the smooth contours of the case.  It would only be a small dose, and he was perfectly safe here in Baker Street.  There was no reason  not to indulge just this once.  

    Pushing aside any doubts which tried to wiggle to the surface, Holmes retreated to his room where he determinedly closed the door.  When the needle entered his skin and he pushed the plunger home, the warmth of the drug was as sweet an escape as the music of the night before had been.  

    Before long he found himself drifting lazily on idle thoughts, the syringe dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers rolling a short distance from the bed to rest against the edge of his dresser.

    He closed his eyes and allowed his body and mind to escape the worries which had plagued him, and within an hour was fast asleep.  

***

    A hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly brought him abruptly awake, sitting up suddenly and trying to swing at whoever was close enough to his person to do damage.

    “Holmes!”

    Watson’s voice, though not quite at the level of  a yell, would have done his old Army instructors proud, and Holmes found himself blinking dizzily up at his friend, who was leaning over him with one of the sternest expressions on his face the detective had ever seen, and the syringe held in a tight fist before him.

    “Watson-” Holmes began, swallowing convulsively as nausea rolled over him.

    “Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, a bit more gently than his previous tone, though with little of the compassion he usually offered when posing such a question.

    “I -”

    Without waiting for his reply, the doctor maneuvered Holmes to his feet and into the facility before the other could finish deciding, and it was only as he was crouched before the toilet, retching piteously, that Holmes realized the spectacle he must be making of himself.

    Watson had left his side a moment after the vomiting started, but returned minutes later, a damp cloth in his hand and the syringe nowhere to be found.  For all his obvious anger, the doctor’s hands were gentle as he soothed the flannel over Holmes’ neck and forehead, and once he was certain Holmes was finished he offered him a cup filled with tepid water to rinse.  

    “I’m only going to ask this once, Holmes,” Watson said softly, though his tone betrayed the bitter anger still evident on his tight lipped, pale face.  “Normally I would never force a confidence, but I will not allow you to fall back into such destructive habits the moment I get you back.  I won’t.  So  you are going to tell me, truthfully, how many times you have resorted to the cocaine since you have returned to London, and if you intend to continue the vile habit.”

    Holmes, forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet, knees starting to ache from his position, shook his head slightly, eyes closed firmly against the condemnation he knew would be on his dearest friend’s countenance.      

    “It has been some time,” he admitted, voice rough from sickness and shame.  He could not control the slight quaver that filled his next words, and a dark flush crept up his heated cheeks.  “I will not do so again.  It was a…momentary… weakness.”

    His eyes stung, though he determinedly kept them closed, and turned his head slightly so Watson would not see the utter humiliation burning across his face.   But he had forgotten what it was like to be with someone who knew him so intimately, and a hand, gentle now and soothing, rested between his shoulders.  
      
    “I will not abide under the same roof with you again if you go back on your word,” Watson promised, and though the words spoken were harsh, the tone was not.  “I cannot watch you destroy yourself, not after - after everything. I can’t, Holmes.  It would devastate me, and I am not strong enough to pick up the pieces.  Not again.  Do you understand?”

    The hand on his neck squeezed tightly to emphasize his point, and Holmes nodded silently.  A shudder ran through his thin form, though from the cold, humiliation, or the drug releasing its final hold, he could not tell.

    “Let’s get you back to bed,” Watson sighed, and arms wrapped gently under his own, bringing Holmes to his feet.  Still unable to face his friend, Holmes found his face buried in Watson’s shoulder, all his considerable control bent on stopping the damning wetness from leaving his eyes and betraying him.   

    “We will not speak of this again,” Watson murmured into his hair,  holding the other man tightly to his chest and gazing to the ceiling as he fought his own battle against too strong emotion.  “This is a new beginning for both of us, Holmes, starting now.”

    Only after he felt the small nod, Holmes’ nose brushing against his collar, did Watson steer them back to his friend’s room.

    “I only stopped by to pick up something I had forgotten,” he continued in a nearly conversational tone.  “When I saw your door closed I decided to check on you.  The nausea is most likely a side effect from the raised blood pressure and your sitting up too quickly.  You should be able to sleep comfortably now, though I think a good cup of tea may be in order, hmmm?”  

    Holmes nodded, pulling himself together with effort, so that when the doctor deposited him on his bed and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, he could blink up at him without fear of making an even bigger fool of himself than he had.  

    When Watson turned to fetch him the tea he could not stop himself from reaching out, clinging to Watson’s cuff as he turned back, eyebrow raised curiously.  

    “I’m sorry, Wat-”

    “Hush,” Watson interrupted, and placed a finger to Holmes’ lips to silence him.  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, silent moment, all the years of their history passing between them in an unspoken communication of apology and forgiveness.  “Let me get that tea for you and then I must be off.  I’m meeting an acquaintance from my club for lunch, and I cannot be late.  Trust me, Holmes,” he added when the other opened his mouth to apologize again.  “All will be well when you wake up.  I promise.”

    Watson ran a hand over Holmes’ forehead and down his cheek, gazing fondly at the other’s doubting expression.  “I promise,” he repeated, then turned to retrieve the tea.  

    Holmes lay silently, staring at the ceiling which had become all too familiar the past week, and cursed himself for a fool as he listened to the sounds of the doctor in the other room.  

    Never again, he promised himself.  He would throw the cursed drug away the instant Watson departed, and the Morocco case would be left in the doctor’s care.  He would not harm his friend again.  Not for the wide world, and certainly not for a few moments of fleeting peace.  

    When Watson returned, steaming mug in hand and bowler firmly in place, he helped Holmes sit up to drink the tea, though he no longer required the assistance.  Having Watson’s hands on him, soothing and gentling, filled a hollow place he had not been aware of for some time.  Like a wound left so long untreated that it no longer seemed to cause pain.  

    “Get some rest,” Watson advised as he took the empty cup and headed for the door. “I’ll be back before supper.”

    Holmes listened to his friend depart, waiting for the moment when he could carry out his plan, when a strange lassitude seemed to deaden his limbs and made his head feel too heavy to lift.  

    His last conscious thought as he drifted off to sleep was that the doctor had become much more cunning in his absence, and that drinking drugged tea was a small price to pay for his stupidity.  

*****

    Several hours later, with the smell of one of Mrs. Hudson’s stews filling the sitting room with a tempting aroma, Holmes found himself sat in his chair by the fire, for it was once again a cold and blustery day with rain splattering the windows.  He had woken restless from his unintended nap and set about trying to implement his plans, only to find the Morocco case nowhere to be found.  Though he had searched both the sitting room and his own extensively, the only conclusion he could reach was that the doctor had either thrown it out or secured it in his own room.  

    And Holmes would never violate his trust by entering such a personal space without the doctor’s express permission. Or to wake the doctor for a case, he admitted silently, thinking of all the times he had watched the other man sleep in the early hours of the morning, with a client downstairs or about to arrive.  

    Still, things were different now, he reminded himself.  As Watson had said earlier it was a new beginning for both of them, and though some habits had been reestablished easily between them, that was not one of them.

    So it was that a little before five Holmes found himself reading one of Watson’s books on rare blood disorders, blanket wrapped snugly around his legs, awaiting the doctor’s return.  

    He heard the door open downstairs, though he had become so engrossed in the book that only a distant part of his mind was engaged in cataloguing the sounds below him.  Firm step, though with a limp, and the steady thump of a cane.  There was a hushed conversation, no doubt Mrs. Hudson greeting the doctor, and then the steps resumed, accompanied by a strange scrabbling.  

    Head cocked, Holmes found his attention directed to the door, brows furrowed as he tried to determine the cause of the strange noise.  He was just setting down the book and preparing to stand when the door opened and a startling sight stood before him.

    “Good evening, Holmes!” Watson greeted cheerfully, hand clenched tightly around a taut leash which was apparently attached to -

    “Gladstone?”

    Holmes’ whisper could barely be heard among the steady rhythm of the rain lashing against the windowpane, and he noted absently that Watson must have taken a carriage because neither he nor the dog straining to explore the room was more than slightly damp.  

    “But-”  He found he could not continue, standing and absently throwing the blanket aside as he made his way to where Watson was proudly smirking, still keeping a firm grasp on the stout bulldog.

    Though much thinner and filled with more grey, Holmes could never have mistaken the excited canine for any other.  When he made his way over to the two of them, Gladstone began to whimper and struggle to free himself, standing on his hind legs for several seconds before gravity proved too fierce a foe and he fell back to all fours with a disgruntled  bark only to try again.

    “I think we can let him off the leash, don’t you?” Watson asked, his smile nearly blinding as he did just that, and Holmes barely had time to prepare before he found himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic greeting.

    “How?” he managed to get out as he landed quite suddenly on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him as Gladstone barked his strange, high pitched ‘woofs,’ licking and panting heavily as he struggled to worm his way into Holmes’ lap.  

    For a moment the smile dimmed into something more gentle as Watson watched the two reacquaint themselves.  

    “When Mary became too sick to leave unattended for more than the briefest of times, I could not take care of the poor thing as he deserved.  A friend from my club, whose wife was an old school mate of Mary’s, offered to take care of him until such a time as I - as I could once more take him back.  He’s been in the country the last six months, taking care of family business, or else I would have brought Gladstone back sooner.”

    Holmes closed his eyes as a wet tongue lavished his cheeks and chin with sloppy puppy kisses, and he found himself laughing as the bulldog continued to bark his joy, back end wagging in excitement so that the entire squat body appeared to undulate with happiness.  

    “I had feared - I had not wanted to ask,” Holmes managed to get out, sputtering as Gladstone’s tongue came a bit too close to his mouth for comfort.  “Yes, yes, I am very happy to see you, too!” he finally crooned, taking the dog into his arms in a rare show of emotion that had Watson grinning again, eyes twinkling as he took in the sight and tried not to laugh.  

    He made his way over to his chair and, sitting heavily, watched the two with an indulgent grin, much like a father watching his children play.

    “I do believe he missed you, Holmes,” he finally laughed, unable to help himself as Gladstone, overcome with excitement, left a tail of urine over the carpet and Holmes’ leg, much to the detective’s undisguised horror.  

***

    Once the carpet (and Holmes) had been thoroughly scrubbed and dinner eaten, Watson sat on the settee as he watched Holmes throw a ball for the dog to chase.  Where the detective had found the ball Watson was afraid to ask, but the two seemed to enjoy the game and Watson couldn’t help the giddy feeling which continued to erupt from his chest in the form of spontaneous smiles.  

    After nearly fifteen minutes of the simple fetch, Holmes seemed to grow bored with merely throwing the ball, and started to find out of the way locations in the room which forced Gladstone to scamper about and try to worm his body into small spaces.  By the time Holmes had managed to throw the ball up the stairs, both men were laughing hard enough to bring tears to their faces.  

    “Really, Holmes, he’ll never make it up the stairs!” Watson protested between ragged breaths, wiping his eyes.  “You better go help him.”

    “Perhaps it was a bit beyond his ability,” Holmes relented, and Watson watched as the detective made his way up the stairs, calling out to Gladstone as he did so.  

    “Watson, he appears to have found your room.  May I enter?” Holmes called down.

    “Of course!” Watson yelled back, and then suddenly remembered what was kept on his bedside table and hastily scrambled to intercept the detective.  

    By the time he reached his room the good humor of before had faded, though he could not explain why exactly he was afraid Holmes would see the picture.  When he pushed his bedroom door open, the other man was sitting on his bed, the metal frame in one hand as he absently patted Gladstone with the other, the dog somehow having managed to make his way onto the bed.  

    Watson stood in the doorway a moment, his throat tight as Holmes finally looked up at him.

    “We should place this on the mantel, if you’ve no objection,” Holmes finally said softly, and his eyes, though not upset or angry, had lost much of the mirth from earlier.  

    “I didn’t - that is, I had not thought you would wish it to be so publicly displayed,” Watson answered just as softly, finally making his way into the room and gently dislodging the dog from the bed, taking his place so that his knee brushed Holmes‘.  Seeing the hurt in his friend’s eyes before he could mask it, Watson added, “I know you did not entirely approve, Holmes, even after the marriage was said and done.  I will not force you to keep a reminder of something that brought you pain in your own home.”

    “But she brought you joy,” Holmes whispered, turning his gaze back to the photo, a simple pose of Watson standing proudly beside Mary as she sat primly in a wooden chair.  It had been taken nearly a year after their marriage, before Holmes ‘death’ and Mary’s illness, when Watson had still thought his world was perfect and he had everything he could have ever wished for.  

    “Place it on the mantel, old boy,” Holmes ordered, handing the photo over and standing with a slightly exaggerated stretch.  “I’m going to attempt to sleep now.  Good night, Watson.”

    Watson watched as Holmes gently nudged Gladstone out the door, closing it behind him firmly.  The footsteps which headed downstairs seemed heavier than before, and Watson closed his eyes as he cursed fate, God, and himself.  

    When the soft strains of the violin woke him several hours before dawn, he could not find it in himself to be surprised.  

***

    When Watson descended the stairs far earlier than was his usual wont the next morning, he was greeted with the incongruous sight of Holmes curled up on the settee, violin held protectively in his hands as he gazed distantly into the banked embers of the fire.      
    “Holmes?” Watson asked, hesitant to move beyond the bottom of the stairs, lest he disturb his friend.  At his voice, however, Holmes shook his head as though to clear it from whatever thoughts had occupied him throughout the night, and he turned to stare at Watson with exhaustion bruised eyes.  

    “Are you all right, dear fellow?” Watson asked softly, moving to sit gingerly beside the detective and gently taking the violin from his hands.  Holmes watched in a daze as he placed it carefully back in its case, which rested beside Gladstone in front of the fire.   Only after that action was done and Watson had turned his attention back to his friend did Holmes speak.  

    “Forgive me, Watson.”  He ran a hand over his eyes, the appendage trembling slightly.  “I am not myself today.”

    “You look terrible, Holmes.”  Watson placed his hand on the other’s shoulder, the muscles tense and too warm to the touch.    
      
    The laugh which issued from his friend’s throat was more akin to a sob than a mirthful sound, and Watson’s hand tightened.  

    “I am so very tired,” Holmes whispered, refusing to meet the doctor’s gaze.  “And yet when I close my eyes, a million thoughts and sensations overwhelm me and I find myself wondering…”  His voice trailed off into a heavy sigh, and he reached up absently to cover his friend’s hand with his own.  

    “Would you like me to give you something?” Watson asked, shaking Holmes a bit when the detective did not answer.  

    “No, Watson, not today.  I hope that tonight I will be sufficiently tired I can escape into the arms of Morpheus unaided.  Thank you,” he added, finally raising weary eyes as he offered an anemic smile.  “I have some errands to run today.  Perhaps the fresh air -”  He stopped and eyed the wan daylight with a resigned frown.  “Perhaps the London air will do me some good,” he corrected with a twist of lips that was a bit more genuine.  

    “At least have a solid breakfast, Holmes,” Watson entreated, standing and pulling his dressing gown tighter across his middle.  “I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson and have her bring something up, and then perhaps a wash and shave.  You might even look presentable,” he teased, and was rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter.

    “What would the neighbors think?” Holmes asked dryly, and stood as well.  When he swayed, stumbling back a step, he forestalled Watson’s instinctive movement with an upraised hand.

    “I merely stood too fast,” he assured, making a shooing motion when Watson continued to regard him dubiously.  “Go, ring for breakfast, and I shall build the fire up.  It looks to be another cold day, and I find that I feel it all too often in my old bones.”

    Watson scoffed even as he turned to do as bid.

    “Might I remind you that you are younger than me?” he asked teasingly.

    “Yes, well, then you should know exactly what I refer to.”  

    He grinned cheekily at the scowl thrown his way, and then turned to his chore, making nonsense noises at Gladstone as the bulldog shifted slightly to accommodate him, grumbling at the imposition of having to move.

    “You may wish to get dressed before taking Gladstone for his walk,” Holmes called a moment later, and Watson could not help the sigh that seemed to come from his very toes.

    Some things, he was discovering, never changed when Sherlock Holmes was involved.  

***

    After breakfast the two sat comfortably by the fire, reading the newspaper and going through the mail of the past few days.  Despite him being strictly forbidden to work any cases, Holmes still insisted on being kept up to date on anything which might prove interesting.  Luckily for Watson’s nerves, none of them caught his attention, and once they had been consigned to the fire, Holmes set about tidying up.

    Watson remained by the fire, cigarette in hand as he lazily finished perusing the newspaper, Gladstone snoring peacefully at his feet.  Though he had dressed to take the dog on his morning constitutional, the doctor was once more down to shirtsleeves and trousers, cuffs and collar discarded for what he hoped was the rest of the day.  

    When Holmes emerged from his room, freshly shaved and hair pomaded into a slicked black shine, only the dark circles under his eyes and the unnatural paleness of his features betrayed his respectable figure.  

    “I shall only be a few hours, Watson,” Holmes informed him as he finished doing up his coat.  “Is there anything you would like while I’m out?”

    “Yes.  I’m out of tooth powder, if you would be so kind as to pick some up,” Watson asked without looking up.  

    “Sanitas?” Holmes clarified, and Watson hid his smile behind the paper.  

    “Yes, please.”

    “Very well,  I shall see you shortly.”

    With a swift pat to Gladstone’s head, Holmes was gone, his voice ringing out from below as he teased the landlady, her reply lost to the sound of the front door closing with a particularly loud bang.

    “One day she truly is going to poison his tea, and not a soul  will blame her,” Watson murmured.

    Gladstone belched his agreement.  

***

    His first stop was several streets away, a tobacconist whose blend Holmes knew Watson particularly favored.  The shop next to it would also have his tooth powder, as well as the soap Holmes found exceptionally pleasing.  It was one of the few brands which did not leave his skin feeling dry and scratched, and the scent was mild enough as to not be an irritant.  

    He hummed as he made his way down the street, avoiding puddles as he did so and keeping an eye to the sky, where heavy clouds threatened more rain to come.  

    “Keep out of the water, Charlie.  Not only does it provide proof of your whereabouts, but it will not do to get your boots too wet.  Spring still has a way to go yet, and you’ll need them a bit longer,” he called as he passed a narrow alley, pausing a moment as though to adjust his gloves and hat.  

    “Sorry, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a penitent voice called from between the two buildings.  “You wasn’t s’posed to notice me.”

    “Quite all right, Charlie.  I heard you splash in that rather large lake that has formed by the barber’s.  If it were anyone other than myself, you would have remained undetected.”

    “Thanks, Mr. ’Olmes!”  

    Resuming his walk, Holmes could not prevent the smile as the footsteps of his little shadow seemed to disappear, turning the expression to a few passing ladies and tipping his hat.   

    It had been too long since he had last wandered the streets of the city he loved, and the ability to stretch his legs, unhindered by the need for disguise or any matters more pressing than simple errands, was a heady freedom.  

    He had forgotten how very loud and busy London was, though, and the noises sang to him, telling a thousand tales with all their varying degrees of intricacy, all of them vying for his attention.  

    The newspaper seller on the corner shouting his business and the street musician a few buildings down battled for supremacy over the clacking of carriages.  Women and men taking their morning constitutions chattered, while young children screamed and mothers scolded.  Down the street a cabby yelled for his payment, and even as he crossed the road, the bells from the nearby church sounded the hour.

    When he reached the little shop that had been his goal, Holmes found it a relief to enter the warm and welcoming building.  The heady scents of various blends of tobacco greeted him, and he paused for a moment on the threshold, breathing in the familiar odor as he gazed about.

    Shelves placed evenly across the walls and in rows throughout the store held various jars of tobacco, pipes and cigarette paper.  It was a pleasant shop, and throughout his travels Holmes had rarely encountered one so well provisioned.

    Removing his hat as he entered he smiled his greeting to the owner, who was currently helping another gentleman, and  set about his task of finding not only his preferred blend, but Watson’s as well.  

    By the time he made his purchases, a new pipe had been added to his selections, a black clay bowl with an elegant stem and a smooth texture which appealed to him.  Though he had been in the shop for little more than a half hour, he still found it a bit disconcerting as he stepped out, the noise and bustle of the street a jarring contrast to the peacefulness of the store.  

    He wasted no time in picking up the toiletries, feeling one of the rare headaches which sometimes assaulted him beginning to form behind his eyes.  It would not be long, he knew, before even the gloomy light of the overcast sky would be too much, and the noise which assaulted him as he set out across the street was nearly overwhelming.  

    A sudden scream, followed by the staccato beats of a horse given its head, had him diving to the sidewalk, barely avoiding the carriage as it careened around the corner, the driver cursing and yelling a warning as he struggled to regain control.  

    For several moments the only sound was the harsh beat of his heart in his ears, and the metallic tang of copper filled his mouth as he struggled to regain control of his suddenly shaking limbs.  

    His chest ached when he managed to make it to his feet, as though a tight band had been wrapped too tightly around his breast.  The air stuttered in his lungs, and he fought the almost overwhelming urge to curl up on the dirty street, hide his face from the world and let all that was passing around him fade into the blackness of oblivion.  

    Someone grabbed his hand, and it was only his iron control which prevented him from lashing out, remembering only at the last instant that there was no danger to him on the familiar street, and it would be beyond humiliating to strike a helpful shopkeeper or passing gentleman.

    “Come on, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a child’s voice prompted, and the hand in his tugged once more.  

    Recognizing a familiar presence, though he was still too dazed to take in more than the slight figure and too dirty clothes, Holmes allowed himself to be dragged off the street and into a side alley.  He stood, hunched and gasping for breath, clutching his chest as pain blossomed throughout his middle.   The boy stood fearfully by his side, uncertain and hesitant, yet unwilling to leave his charge.  

    “Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes.  We’ll take care of ye!  Just please, ‘old on!” the boy pleaded.  

    He helped Holmes as he staggered back against a slimy brick wall, sliding down it’s slick surface without a care for the smell or filth.  He continued to gasp for breath as a small hand rested on his shoulder, fighting nausea and pain as he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the bricks.  

    He would be all right.  He had to be.

***

    “They’s comin’, Mr. ‘Olmes!  I can see ‘em now!”  

    The Irregular which had been his steadfast anchor throughout the ordeal suddenly fled, leaving Holmes propped against the wall as he dashed to the mouth of the alley, waving his arms frantically.  

    “Jasper!” he yelled, and then returned to Holmes’ side.

    “Just a bit more, and then yer doctor will be makin’ ye right again,” the boy promised, and Holmes cracked his eyes open to stare into the earnest, mud smeared face.  

    The child could not have been older than six or seven, with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles which dotted his cheeks and nose.  He was missing his two canine teeth and a bottom front tooth, though at that age it could have been the natural course of things rather than from a skirmish.  His clothes, rolled at the sleeves and above his boots, were clearly castoffs, patched and stained yet sufficient enough to ward off the remaining chill of spring.  As Holmes had observed on the walk over, his feet were shod in sturdy boots, and the cap on his head appeared newer than anything else he wore.  

    “Who did…you send?” he managed to gasp out, words struggling past the tightness in his throat and the feeling of not enough breath to wheeze the question.

    “Me brother, Jasper,” Charlie responded, keeping his eye on the alley even as he gripped Holmes’ shoulder.  “’e runs like a ‘orse, ‘e does, and was watchin’ me watch you so’s I wouldn’t mess up too bad.  They’re almost ‘ere now!”

    A moment later two figures skittered into the alley, Watson with his coat hastily donned and medical bag in hand, no collar or cuffs in sight and his hat perched precariously on his head.  His cane was gripped tightly in his hand, and his face was near grey with fear.

    “Holmes!” he shouted when he saw his friend slumped against the wall, hastening over to him and nearly falling to his knees in his haste to reach his side.  “What happened?” he demanded of the two boys, even as he ran quick hands over Holmes shuddering body, looking for injury.

    “ A carriage almost ran ‘im over,” the new boy explained, gasping for breath with hands on knees as he struggled to speak.  

    His hair was just as curly and ginger as Charlie’s, and his face so spotted with freckles it looked as though his cheeks and nose were brown rather than his brother’s pale pink.  

    “’E fell and was gaspin’ like, clutchin’ ‘is chest,” Charlie continued.  “I grabbed ‘im and tugged ‘im in ‘ere.”

    “Holmes?” Watson asked, placing his hands on either side of the other’s face, tilting his head down so he could look into his eyes. “You need to clam your breathing, old boy.  Try and follow me.  In -”  Watson took a deep breath, Holmes echoing the motion in a shuddering gasp, “- and out.”

    They repeated the exercise several times, until Holmes’ breathing began to calm, and his hand slowly relaxed the tight grip he had on his chest.

    “That’s it, just keep breathing.  Slow and easy,” Watson soothed, pulling out his stethoscope and fitting it into his ears even as he continued to speak gently.  “You’re safe now, Holmes, no one is going to hurt you, I promise.  Deep breath in, that’s it.”

    He listened to his friend’s racing heart, frowning in concentration as the noises from the street kept interfering.  

    “I need to get you home.  Do you think you can stand?” he asked worriedly, running a critical eye over too pale skin bathed in perspiration and the continued hitching of his breath.  
          
    “If I have to crawl!  Get me out of here!” Holmes growled, and with the help of all three managed to make it to his feet.  

    He leaned heavily against Watson’s side, breathing in the scent of him and allowing the smells of tobacco and soap and Watson to wash over him.  When he was no longer swaying, the four of them made their way back to Baker Street, Charlie clutching Holmes’ purchases to his chest as though they were a rare and priceless treasure.  

    None paid attention to the odd looks they received, and when they entered 221 B, Holmes was too exhausted and brittle to do more than offer his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as she wrapped him in a blanket and made distressed sounds.  Watson led him up the stairs, the two Irregulars trailing hesitantly behind him, and when he sank down onto his bed, he could only attempt to smile reassurance at them as they hovered in the doorway.  
      
    “You lads go and sit in the other room,” Watson urged when he followed Holmes’ gaze.  “Mrs. Hudson should be bringing up some tea soon, and you can ask her for some sandwiches.”

    The boys did as instructed, Charlie still clinging to the tightly wrapped parcels as his brother led him out of the doorway with an arm around his shoulders, discreetly closing the door behind them.

    “Come on, old boy, let’s get you out of these clothes and into something more comfortable,” Watson prompted, already working on removing Holmes’ shoes and socks.  “You’re covered in something, probably from that alley. I  doubt you’ll want to wear these trousers again until they’ve been cleaned.”

    “They’ve certainly acquired an odor,” Holmes agreed, trembling fingers unbuttoning his coat and removing the garment with distaste.  “Please give Mrs. Hudson my apologies,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he set about working on his shirt.  “The poor women has to deal with enough rotten smells in the kitchen as is.”

    “Holmes,” Watson scolded, though his lips twitched and a small chuckle escaped before he could control himself.  “Really, you should be more easy on her.”

    “Not until she admits to intentionally using the soured milk in the tea that day,” Holmes vowed, and shuddered, either in remembrance of the incident or from a hidden chill.

    “Come on, off with the clothes and then under the covers,” Watson prompted, and between them it was only a matter of minutes before Holmes was dressed in a warm nightshirt and wrapped in blankets.  

    “Now hush a moment, I need silence.”  Watson exhaled heavily on the cool metal of the stethoscope and placed it against Holmes’ bare chest, where the laces of the nightshirt gapped.    Despite his precaution, Holmes flinched at the touch, and the doctor placed a steadying hand on his arm.  

    The room was quiet save for their breathing, Holmes keeping his expression carefully blank as his friend listened intently.  Finally, after several minutes, Watson removed the buds from his ears and smiled reassuringly.  

    “I hear no disturbance, Holmes, nothing to be worried about.  Your heart is fine.”  He squeezed Holmes’ arm and smiled at the relieved expression which flitted across the other’s face.  “You should try and get some rest now.  You’ve had a very busy day!” he teased gently.

    “It’s barely half past two!” Holmes protested, though his argument was ruined by a wide yawn chasing his words.

    “And you barely slept last night, if at all,” Watson reminded, tugging the blankets a bit closer around his shoulders.  “You’re exhausted and your nerves are in shreds, old boy.”

    “I know,” Holmes sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily.  “But if I sleep now I won’t be able to do so tonight, and I am loath to rely too heavily upon your aids, Doctor.  We both know the danger they present to me.”

    “I do, but in my medical opinion, one night of using them will not harm you.  If you have trouble tomorrow night, we will think of something else,” Watson promised, cutting off the argument he could see forming on Holmes’ lips.  “Trust me, Holmes.”

    Holmes snorted rudely, earning a satisfied grin as Watson stood.  

    “I’ll go make sure the children are not making a nuisance of themselves.  You close your eyes and rest,” he ordered.  

    Holmes couldn’t help the smile as he did so, humming softly as once more the blankets were rearranged to his friend’s satisfaction, and then a soft, whiskered kiss was placed on his forehead.  His eyes snapped open, though he was too stunned to do more than blink.

    Doubt started to creep into Watson’s eyes, lips already starting to form an apology, when Holmes reached up and gently touched his cheek, his lips curling into a beatific grin.

    “Thank you,” he whispered, allowing his hand to linger a moment longer on the smooth flesh before drawing it back under the coverlet.  

    “Get some rest,” Watson murmured.  He hesitated, licking his lips nervously before leaning down and placing another deliberate kiss, this one upon Holmes’ cheek.  Then he turned and hastily left the room, as though afraid of the reaction he would receive.

    Holmes lay still for a very long time, hand coming to rest on his cheek as his mind whirled with thoughts too filled with emotion to clearly be dissected.  For the first time in his life, however, he found he did not care.      

***

          It was the sound of voices which brought him back to consciousness, a worried conversation in a too hushed tone that did not carry the words to where he lay.  He did not doubt, however, that whatever was being said would be best overheard without detection.                
    It took more effort than he cared to think about to sit up, dislodging blankets and groaning as muscles protested the effort, straining as though he had gone ten rounds in the boxing ring.  Standing was a bit easier, and he made his way unsteadily to the half-closed door, surprised to find that the sitting room was illuminated by the gas lamps and a crackling fire.  Standing at the bottom of the stairs, engaged in a serious discussion, was Watson and, to Holmes’ astonishment, his brother.

     Watson’s shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and the first few buttons on his shirt had been loosened.  His hair was disarrayed, as though he had been running his hands through it, and his expression was one of weary concern.

    Mycroft, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion, was nodding at whatever the doctor was saying, tapping his chin with one thick finger.

    “…I am concerned, but not overly so.  Truthfully, Mr. Holmes, if your brother was in any danger of expiring, you would be the very first I would inform,” Watson was assuring softly, his warm voice floating through the door and leaving Holmes feeling more at ease than he had in a long while.  

    So he was not in danger of physical distress, which he had feared from his friend’s reluctance to commit to a diagnosis.  He would have to corner Watson later to find out what, exactly, the doctor knew of his condition.  

    “I am relieved to hear that, Doctor,” Mycroft sighed deeply, and his brother’s weary tone brought his thoughts back to the immediate situation.  “When I received the telegram I fear I had thought the worst.”  
      
    “Yes,” Watson agreed ruefully, running his hand through his hair in a confirmation of  Holmes’ earlier deduction.  “Jasper slipped out while I was doing an examination, before I could assure him Sherlock was in no immediate danger.  I fear your brother is not going to be very pleased when he finds out the lad’s first reaction was to inform you he was dying.”

    “No, I am not,” Holmes grumbled, opening the door completely and making his way out into the sitting room.  He smiled at their startled expressions.  
   
               “Holmes!” Watson exclaimed, his face breaking out into a grin as he made his way over, steering Holmes into a seat by the fire.  He frowned suddenly, observing the stiff movements with a critical eye.  “How are you feeling?”

    “Better,” Holmes promised, patting the hand resting on his elbow reassuringly even as he turned his attention to his brother, who was eyeing him much as he might a piece of succulent steak.  “Mycroft, I must beg you to stop looking as though you wished to take a rather large bite from my calf,” he scolded.  

    For one moment his brother’s face lit into a glorious smile, an expression rarely, if ever, seen on his countenance.  It did not last long, however, and was soon replaced by his usual dry air.

    “How insulting, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled.  “As though there would be enough meat on your stick like appendages to sink my teeth into.”

    Holmes  pursed his lips in a moue of distaste before turning to cluck at Watson as a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders.  “Please, mother hen, I’m much better now.  No need to hover,” he chided, trying not to smile at the familiar scowl this engendered.

                “Forgive me if I keep my own council on that, Holmes.”  Watson paused a moment to squeeze his shoulder before turning back to Mycroft.  “Supper should be up shortly.  Perhaps it would be best to prolong the conversation until we have all eaten.”  Though the words suggested an offer, there was no denying the doctor was putting his foot down on any further discussion for the moment.

    “Of course,” Mycroft agreed, and Holmes sighed as he sank back into his chair.

    “And it was barely past noon when I left,” he grumbled, looking heavenward in disgust.  “I feel as though all I have done is eat and sleep today.  How boring!”

    “Hush,” Watson scolded absently, moving over to his own chair and waiting for Mycroft to sit his ponderous bulk on the settee before lowering himself down. “You could be doing worse things than eating and sleeping the day away.”

    “That is true,” Holmes conceded, brushing non-existent lint from his nightshirt.  “I could be back in that French village, playing the violin as mothers tried to foist their daughters onto me.”  

    “How horrid!” Mycroft gasped in a patently false voice.  “Imagine, Sherlock, the thought of you married!”

    “Yes, it quite sends shivers down my back,” Holmes agreed, ignoring the sarcasm easily.  “Enough of this morbid talk.  I can smell dinner is on its way up and I have no wish to spoil my appetite.”

    Watson snorted at that, though he held his silence as a light rap at the door signaled the arrival of the food.    
      
***  
    Dinner passed quietly, with Holmes picking at his food under the watchful gaze of the two men and, when he could, slipping unobtrusive tidbits to Gladstone, who lay conveniently at his feet under the table.

    “Sherlock, if you do not cease feeding that dog this instant I will be forced to resort to measures from our childhood!” Mycroft finally ordered in exasperation, slamming his hand down on the table with a resounding thud that shook the plates.  

    Holmes jumped in his seat, glaring at his brother sullenly as he brought both hands back to the table.  

    “If you tried anything of the sort you would squash me,” he snapped waspishly.  

    “Peace!” Watson ordered, raising the hand not currently holding a forkful of roast fowl.  “Holmes, you know better than to feed Gladstone at the table.  He has enough digestive troubles as is.  And Mycroft,” he added in his most soothing tone, “please go a bit easier on him. He’s had a trying day and tends to revert to childish behavior when tired.”

    “I do not,” Holmes muttered.  

    He scowled mutinously as twin glares turned on him.

    “Yes, you do,“ Mycroft observed blandly before turning back to Watson.  “Forgive me, Doctor.  You are quite right.”  

    “If you two are quite through…”  Holmes looked around the table before setting aside his fork.  “I have had quite enough for now.  If you’ll excuse me?”

    He did not wait for an answer but pushed his chair back and stood in one smooth motion, retreating to his room and slamming the door behind him.

    Silence fell between the two remaining diners before Mycroft cleared his throat.  

    “Truly, you should have seen him when he was a child.  He has improved greatly.”  His rueful expression conveyed the truth of his words, and Watson chuckled as some of his anxiety broke.

    Before he could respond, however, the bedroom door opened again and Holmes emerged, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his wiry frame.  

    “Sit by the fire and read your newspaper,” Mycroft ordered before his sibling could speak. “We shall join you when we are finished, and not before.”

    Holmes glared at his brother indignantly, crossing his arms tightly against his chest and pursing his lips in what would be called a petulant pout on another man. The two stared each other down in a battle of wills, the silence lengthening until it seemed to stretch, like a physical band, between all three men. Angry rebuttals and chastising rebukes passed between the siblings without a word being uttered, and  Watson found himself caught in the middle, gaze ricocheting between the men before he turned it back to his plate.  

    “Very well,” Holmes finally agreed with a sniff, lifting his chin stubbornly as he attempted to gather up his dignity.  He waited until Mycroft turned his attention back to his dinner before moving, though all three knew who had been the winner of that battle.

    An uneasy silence descended over the room, and it was only after the plates had been stacked and all were sitting around the fire, cigars in one hand and brandy in the other,  that the tension slowly began to dissipate.   

    “Doctor Watson has explained what happened today,” Mycroft began softly, the teasing tone of before replaced with one Holmes was much more familiar with.  His brother’s eyes were filled with a grave concern, and though his expression remained neutral, Holmes could read clearly the distress he was hiding.  “I must say, Sherlock, I do not enjoy being roused from a nap only to be told my brother is at death’s door.  I hereby revoke my hold on the little monsters in your employ.  They are entirely your own again.”

    Holmes’ lips twitched at the small jest, though none of the men attempted to lighten the mood further, and for several moments the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the hiss of their cigars as they took long, drawn out pulls.

    “Holmes, as your brother mentioned, the two of us were talking earlier,” Watson finally said, taking a small sip from his brandy and wetting his lips nervously with his tongue.  The move reminded the detective of what had transpired earlier in his room, and he found he could not pull his gaze away from the other’s lush mouth until he spoke again.  “We have both agreed that a - a holiday is in order.”

    That brought Holmes’ head up, turning his accusatory look first to Watson, then Mycroft.  

    “And where am I to go on this Holiday?” he asked curtly, not even attempting to hide his annoyance.  “Since I have only just returned and would find it a shame to revisit any of my previous destinations.”

    “Oh, do be still, Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbled, shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position, his back firmly pressed against the arm of the settee so as to glower at his brother from a better angle.  “Your doctor and I have agreed that a retreat to the Chichester Estate would do your constitution wonders.  Besides,“ Mycroft continued shrewdly, his grey eyes twinkling.  “You left in such a state last time that Mrs. Everman was quite worried about you.  She’ll be much relieved to see you - well, looking considerably better.”

    Watson did not miss the look Holmes darted his way, and despite the fact he could not rival his friend in deductive ability, something about the way Mycroft had worded that last statement had the doctor eyeing his friend narrowly.

    “I told you, Mycroft, it was imperative I leave.  Things were coming to a head and there was no time to waste!” Holmes snapped defensively, leaning further back in his chair, as though to escape the conversation he so obviously wished to steer clear of.  He studiously avoided Watson’s gaze as he did so, keeping his eyes firmly on his brother.  

    “You had been fevered and very nearly dead for the better part of a fortnight!  She had barely nursed you back to health when-”

    “That is enough, Mycroft!” Holmes nearly yelled with unusual ferocity.  “I’m certain the doctor has no wish to hear this, and I think you have overstayed your welcome!”      

    “Actually, Holmes, I think I would very much like to hear this,” Watson interrupted, noting with satisfaction the flush that came to Holmes’ face.  “And your brother is welcome to stay for as long as he wishes.  Please, Mr. Holmes, continue.  I am very much eager to hear the story. I’m afraid Sherlock is rather close- mouthed about certain things, his health being one of them, apparently.”

    “You mean he has not told you?” Mycroft asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone as both men turned to stare at the man in question.

    “It was not important, Mycroft,” Holmes said firmly, a look of betrayal flashing across his face as he eyed his brother balefully.  “I’m certain Watson does not wish to be bothered with such an inconsequential matter.  Truly, Watson, I will assuage your curiosity later.”

    “Inconsequential?” Mycroft demanded, and Watson watched with alarm as the fleshy cheeks flushed a dark red with anger. “Sherlock Emerson Scott Holmes, you were delirious with fever from a gunshot for a fortnight!  I will not have you trivialize such an event!  I have no doubt you took several years off my life when I found you prostrate against my doorway, and Mrs. Everman completely went to grey taking care of you whilst I was detained!”

    “Mycroft!” Holmes hissed, throwing his cigar end into the fire and casting a furtive look towards his friend, who was staring at him much the way a wolf would eye its prey.

    “Holmes, be quiet.  Mycroft, please, continue. I fear that this is one adventure your brother has neglected to inform me about,” Watson urged evenly, not removing his gaze from the detective.  

    “You did not - Sherlock!”

    Rarely had Sherlock Holmes ever heard such a bellow from his brother, and even now they could hear hurried footsteps running up the stairs.

    “Mr. Holmes?  Doctor Watson?  Is everything all right?” Mrs. Hudson asked  through the door, refraining from opening it only due to long association with strange sounds and odd conversations under her roof.  

    “Everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson!” Watson called back, standing as he did so and finishing his drink.  “Please don’t concern yourself, and have a good evening.  We’ll keep it down.”

    “I’ll just put the cotton in my ears then. Good night, gentlemen.” Only after the sound of retreating footsteps did Watson make his way over to Holmes‘ chair, taking a position behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.  

    “Please, continue,” he urged Mycroft, who watched him with knowing eyes and a twist to his lips which could only be described as a sympathetic grimace.

    “He did not tell me the details of what transpired, Doctor; you will have to ask him for those yourself.  What I can tell you is that he had been shot some days previous to when he turned up on my threshold, the wound infected.  Knowing his life was still in danger, and not knowing his plans regarding yourself, I called my personal physician to tend to him.  After a week his fever broke, and the doctor assured us he was past the danger point.  At that time, I fear I was called away on a matter of grave importance of which I could not avoid. My lovely housekeeper tended to him in my absence, but I fear she was out of practice in dealing with my brother.   When I returned two weeks later I found he had departed without a by-your-leave, and Mrs. Everman was beside herself with worry.  You see, Doctor, as she put it, he was ‘weak as a newborn bairn and too skinny to match.’  A sentiment I fear she will continue to harbor when we visit.”  

    All through his narration, Watson’s hand had tightened on his friend’s shoulder by increments, until Holmes was certain the flesh would be a livid bruise by morning and he was hard pressed not to grimace.

    “Watson, dear boy -” he began, voice tight with pain despite his efforts.

    Amazingly, the hand tightened further.

    “Do go on, Mr. Holmes,” Watson ordered, and despite the anger clearly simmering beneath his cool surface, his voice did not waver.  “I fear your brother has neglected to tell me any of this, and it may have a distinct bearing on his current health.”  
      
    “It was months before!” Holmes protested hotly, trying to squirm away from the vice-like grip, only to have Watson tighten it further and shake him slightly in rebuke.

    “Watson, please,” he finally asked, allowing some of his pain to show through in his voice.  “I would very much like to play the violin again, and I fear I may lose all feeling in my fingers if you do not relax your grip enough for the blood to flow!”

    Immediately the pain lessened, and Holmes slumped back in his chair, attempting a glare at the man behind him, only to have any protests quickly banished by the look of pure fury in the usually gentle blue eyes.      

    “When I gave you your physical that day in my office, Sherlock Holmes, which part of ‘Please tell me about anything significant that may pertain to your health,’ did you not understand?” Watson growled.  

    The doctor’s voice contained none of its soothing cadence.  Had, actually, dropped into a husky timbre which at once sent a shiver up Holmes’ spine and had him slinking further back in his chair.  He did not think, in all his vivid memories of their time together, he had ever seen him so very angry before.  It was an experience he was not certain he would wish to repeat.

    “I did not think it was relevant,” Holmes finally muttered, turning his gaze deliberately to his brother, who was watching the scene with amusement clearly writ across his face.  He scowled, crossing his arms tightly and wincing as Watson’s hand tightened once more in warning.  

    “Is there anything else I should be made aware of?” Watson snapped, turning his glare from one brother to the next.  

    “None that I can think of, Doctor,” Mycroft demurred immediately, his amusement not dimmed by the doctor’s anger.  “However, as Sherlock had not seen fit to even inform me of what happened to procure such a wound in the first place, I fear you will have to drag what answers you can out of him.  He is most stubborn, as you know, but I think with the proper incentive he may be convinced to release some of his secrets.”

    “Oh, for-!” Holmes snapped, finally standing and breaking Watson’s hold entirely.  He stood before the fire, two blooms of color on his otherwise pale face, glaring at everything he cast his gaze upon, from his brother and Watson to the plates sitting innocently on the table.  

    “I was running for my life!” he shouted, lines of tension around his eyes looking darker and more pronounced in his agitation.  “Did you think that involved holidaying at inns and enjoying romping about the countryside?  Of course there were problems!  If I related every single event when my life was placed in danger I fear another year or so may pass before you were both satisfied!  I survived the ordeal and that should be all you concern yourselves with!”

    “Holmes, calm down!” Watson urged in alarm, his anger subsumed by concern as he watched the other man’s svelte frame sway with his distress.

    “Perhaps it would be best if my brother were to retire for the night. I fear we may have upset him,” Mycroft suggested, standing with some difficulty and moving ponderously to take his brother by the arm.  “Come, Sherlock.  If you would like I shall rub your back for you to help you sleep.”

    “I am not a child!” Holmes yelled, shaking off the other’s grip and stamping his foot in frustration as he glared furiously.

    Silence descended as a dark blush rose across his cheeks at his actions, and the hands crossed against his chest tightened further.

    “We know you are not a child,” Watson soothed, moving to rest his hand gently on Holmes’ elbow.  “But you are overwrought, and your nerves are in shreds.  You have had a most trying and frightening day, and now we have made you relive an experience I can see still troubles you.  Please, Sherlock,” Watson murmured, and the use of his given name had the detective’s features softening slightly.  “Try and get some more rest, and in the morning I promise we will speak more of this, after we have both had time to calm down.”  

    At his friend’s continued reticence, Watson asked, softly, “For me?  I fear I will not rest easy tonight if I know this lies between us.  Let us put it aside and sleep, and discuss is when both our heads are a bit clearer.”

    Relaxing his tight stance slightly, Holmes relented, nodding his head once as he allowed himself to be led back to his bedroom.  Mycroft watched as dressing gown and slippers were removed, then entered the room to stand beside the doctor as covers were pulled up to a chin still clenched firmly in annoyance.    

    For what must have been several minutes he stared at his brother, an expression of such fondness and concern on his features that Watson did not have the heart to break the silence which had fallen, but merely moved to stand in the doorway.  

    Finally, with a sigh which seemed to come from the very center of his considerable bulk, the elder Holmes sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with a creak of springs.  Holmes, seemingly against his will, found himself resting his head on Mycroft’s thigh as a large hand rubbed soothing circles over his back.

    “I am not a child anymore,” Holmes repeated petulantly, though there was no bite to his words, his eyes shutting in weary resignation.

    “You shall always be a child to me,” Mycroft murmured, continuing to run his large flipper of a hand over his brother’s back.  “Please try to remember that not all of us are as young as we used to be.  Nights of listening to you cry in distress have long since lost their appeal.  Do as your doctor says and regain your health.  For my sake, if not your own.  I am too old for this.”

    Holmes snorted, though his eyes remained closed.  “You are only a little older than me,” he mumbled.  

    “Hush now, and go to sleep.  When you wake, all will be better,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, and if there was a hint of ritual to the words, Watson did not comment.    
      
     He stood in the doorway, one hand clenched tightly against too strong emotion, and wiped his eyes surreptitiously with the other.  Nothing more was said as Holmes’ breathing slowly evened out, and only after both men were certain that he had fallen asleep did they leave.  

    Watson pressed his hand gently to Mycroft’s as the large man donned his hat and gloves, and was rewarded with a gentle smile.

    “I know he is in good hands under your care, Doctor.  Please,” Mycroft urged softly, opening the sitting room door.  “Be gentle with him when you can.  He is all I have left in this world.”

    With a silent nod, Watson watched the other man disappear down the steps and into the night, sighing mightily as he closed the door and leaned his forehead against it.  

    “Goodnight,” he finally sighed into the grain of the wood.  

    After a few seconds he moved, leaving the strong support of the door to turn down the gas before retiring to his own bed.

    He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be trying.  

***

    The next morning when Watson descended from his room, dressed for Gladstone’s daily constitutional, it was to find Holmes sitting at the table, hair askew and still in his dressing gown.  He was, however, sipping at a cup of coffee and picking at a plate of toast and kippers.

    “Good morning,” Watson greeted somewhat hesitantly, uncertain as to his reception after the night before.

    “Good morning, Watson,” Holmes greeted warmly, smiling up from his plate with such affection that the doctor could not help but beam back.  

    “Did you sleep well?” Watson asked, seating himself opposite the other and filling his plate as Holmes poured him a cup of tea.  
      
    “Yes, I did.  Thank you,” Holmes murmured, a faint tinge of pink coloring his cheeks as he continued, not meeting Watson’s eyes.  “I wanted to say I was sorry, for my abhorrent behavior last night.  Mycroft was quite right to label me a child after such action.  I do hope you will forgive me.”

    “Of course, Holmes,” Watson agreed readily, the warmth of his voice deepening the color on his friend’s face.  He could not resist adding, “Although I must say, it was a rare opportunity to witness what you must have been like as a young lad.  I’m most grateful for the opportunity.”

    Holmes mock scowled over at him before grinning ruefully.  “Quite right,” he agreed easily.

    Knowing Watson’s taste well, he  added milk and sugar to the cup before handing it over, fingers lingering for just a moment against the smooth china as Watson’s hand closed briefly over his.  

    They shared a smile as once more something undefined seemed to pass between them.  Holmes was reluctant to try to put a name to it, though he found his heart quickening and his chest tightening as he met Watson’s eyes over their shared cups.  

    It was Gladstone, whimpering slightly under the table, that brought them back from the edge of whatever precipice they had been standing on.     
      
    “See what happens when you feed him under the table?  He grows to expect scraps,” Watson rebuked gently, bending to look down at the portly bulldog, who was staring adoringly up at Holmes.  The detective, for his part, pretended he did not hear.

    “Tell me, Watson, what this… holiday… will entail,” Holmes sighed, his tone leaving no doubt as to his thoughts on the matter.

    “A quiet get away,” Watson assured, giving no sign at taking offence to his friend’s reluctant demeanor.  “Your brother told me of the beautiful paths which wander about the estate, and I distinctly remember you mentioning once a spit to roast a lamb upon.  Really, Holmes,” Watson chided teasingly, “Don’t you think it will be a relief to get away from London for a while?  To smell fresh air and stretch our legs?  Besides,” he sighed, taking a long sip of his tea as though to fortify himself.  “London has grown rather tedious for me the past few months.  I think - I think I would like to get away.”

    The sadness which darkened the doctor’s eyes reminded Holmes once more of his brother’s warning words.  

    “Of course, Watson,” he agreed, moving hesitantly to soothe away the echoes of pain, his hand hovering for a second before resting lightly over Watson’s. “I am here for you,” he said, shyly, as he squeezed the fingers beneath his.  “Should you ever wish to speak.  I know I am not always the best of listeners, but I - I would listen, Watson.”

    “I know,” Watson assured him, returning the squeeze and smiling in heartfelt appreciation at the offer.  “Forgive me, Holmes.  I do not mean to continuously turn my thoughts to the past.”  The doctor sighed, and his grip tightened slightly.  “My mourning ended sooner than I had thought it would, sooner than society might have deemed it prudent.  But…”  Watson paused, his gaze once more seemingly riveted on the dark liquid in his cup.  “When you returned to me, I knew that I could no longer wear the mourning.  Mary will have been dead a year next week, and I think it is time I move on with my life.  We had three years together, and brief though it was, I will never forget her,” Watson vowed softly, finally meeting Holmes’ eyes.  “But I think that, given the chance, I will love again.”  

      Holmes cleared his throat, and it was his turn to avoid the too steady gaze,  studying his plate intently as he moved the food around absently with his fork.  

    “I hope that - that such an opportunity will present itself,” he murmured, clearing his throat again as he squeezed the hand in his.  

    “Perhaps it will,” Watson offered.  

    An awkward silence descended, a rare occurrence for the two friends, and soon they returned their attention to their breakfast, Holmes slowly reclaiming his hand as he poured more coffee for himself.  

    “I am willing to go to the estate, so long as you answer me a few questions,” he finally said, changing the subject.  

    “Of course,” Watson agreed easily, pushing his empty plate away and finishing his tea before standing.  “But let me take Gladstone for his walk while you prepare yourself for the day.  When I get back, we’ll discuss matters.”

    Holmes watched him depart, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth as Watson coaxed Gladstone away from his position before the fire and out into the blustery day.  Though sunlight filtered in through the clouds over the city, the wind rocking the trees kept the temperature colder than was seasonal, and Holmes wrapped his dressing gown a bit tighter about himself as he finished his coffee and set about his daily ablutions.

    When Watson returned, scarf wrapped securely around his neck and Gladstone straining at the leash, Holmes was seated before the crackling fire, smoking his morning pipe and perusing his correspondence.  

    “Holmes,” was all Watson said in a warning tone when he entered the sitting room.

    “Am I supposed to neglect everything?” Holmes demanded peevishly, not bothering to look up from the letter he was reading.   “Believe it or not, Watson, I do have a certain reputation for solving crimes, small though it may be.  It was how I earned the rent money, you know.  Even if I have been reduced to missing shoes or lost poodles.”  Holmes threw the offending letter into the fire with a grimace of distaste.  “I should retire now and take up a ridiculous hobby.  I hear beekeeping is particularly engaging.”

    “Oh, do be quiet, Holmes,” Watson scoffed, sitting heavily in his chair and watching in amusement as Holmes skimmed another of the telegrams from the pile in his lap.  “I’m sure there will be more interesting cases for you to solve, after you have seen to your health.”

    “Yes, yes, yes,” Holmes grumbled, the telegram joining its counterpart in the fire.  “Mrs. Astworth wants to know where her missing brooch is.  Poor women is either blind or delusional.  It should be as plain as the hideous hats she favors that her husband gave it to  his lover to pay for an abortion.”

    “Holmes,” Watson warned again, this time the rebuke more pronounced.  “Must you be so vulgar?”

    “Yes.  The world is a vulgar place, Watson.  If it’s not a man cheating on his wife, it’s a wife cheating on her husband.  Or perhaps it’s the scullery maid stealing from the employer, or the -”

    “Enough!”  

    Holmes closed his mouth, removing his pipe and tapping it against the ashtray beside him with more force than was necessary.  He continued to scowl down at the papers in his lap until Watson, with a world weary sigh, levered himself up and removed them, throwing them onto the side table.  

    “What has you in such a fine mood, Holmes?  You were perfectly decent at breakfast and now you’re practically ghastly.”  Watson continued to stand beside his friend, though Holmes studiously avoided his gaze, his eyes firmly set on Gladstone, who  had resumed his habitual slumber in front of the fire.

    “I am… sorry,” Holmes finally murmured.  

    “I don’t want an apology. I want to know what happened between breakfast and now,” Watson prodded, finally moving to resume his seat.  “Talk to me, Holmes.”

    Holmes let his breath out slowly, rubbing a hand against his forehead.  

    “Do you know how many years it took me to gain the - the cooperation, the respect, of Scotland Yard?” he finally asked, closing his eyes as though the light pained him.  

    Watson, ever attuned to his friend, observed him carefully, prepared to close the drapes at the first sign of an impending headache.  When the other man finally dropped his hand and gazed wearily at the doctor, he knew that it was not a physical pain which was trying the detective.

    “I had not expected to be able to return to things as they had been, Watson,” Holmes assured softly, steepling his fingers gracefully.  “But I had not thought that I would be reduced to such - such cases as I may have been subjected to when I was twenty-five or thirty.  I had hoped I moved beyond solving the petty crimes which so trivialize this city.  And yet… Not one word from Scotland Yard.  Not a whisper!  I have been back for nearly two months now, and still no one has sought me out.  It’s rather…”  
He paused, searching for the correct word.

    “Demoralizing?” Watson offered, lips quirked beneath his mustache.  

    “Humbling,” Holmes countered.

    “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Scotland Yard hasn’t requested your aid because I asked them not to?” Watson asked blandly, and was treated to the rare sight of Sherlock Holmes completely stunned speechless.

    “You -” he managed to get out in a choked accusation, his eyes narrowing as they took in Watson’s innocent expression.  “Why would you do that?” he finally demanded, leaning forward in his agitation.

    “Because you are in no condition to go running about the streets in pursuit of killers, thieves and despots,” Watson replied immediately.  There was no apology in his tone as he continued, talking over any objection his friend may have voiced.  “I told the Yard quite sternly that should any of them attempt to contact you it would be known to their superior that they were inefficient and incapable of doing their job.  They managed on their own before you returned, and will continue to do so until you have regained your strength and your health.  Now, stop pouting.  We have things to discuss before we leave tomorrow, and I believe you had some questions you wished to ask.”

    Holmes continued to stare at him as though he had never seen him before, though Watson’s relaxed posture did not change.  He even went so far as to smile encouragingly, until Holmes threw himself back in his chair in disgust, crossing his arms and glowering.  

    “What’s wrong with me?” he demanded once it was apparent Watson was not going to say anything else on the matter.  “You’ve known for some time, several weeks in fact.  You have shown no surprise at any of my symptoms as they presented themselves, yet none of them have been complaints I have come to you with before.  You haven’t told me your diagnosis, which leads me to conclude that it is something you do not wish me to worry about.  Either it’s a trifling matter, in which case you would have told me before now and set my mind at ease, or there is no cure and you did not know how to broach the subject.  Because you have taken the unprecedented steps of threatening the Yarders and refusing me any work, then I can only deduce that it is the latter, and you have not yet found a way to inform me.  So I ask you again, Watson.  What is wrong with me?”

    Holmes’ voice had been growing steadily more perturbed as he fired off his deductions, until he was leaning forward once more and glaring at his friend, the last words bitten off in a tone far more suited to an interrogation.  

    Watson swallowed, throat suddenly dry, and leaned back slightly into the cushions of the chair.   He did not allow his neutral expression to falter at the rapid-fire recital of the facts, though.

    “You are correct,” he said evenly, voice low and soothing.  It was his doctor’s voice, and Holmes found himself despising it.  “I do know the cause for your ill health, and there is no cure.  I should have realized that not knowing would be worse for you than if you had a name, and for that I apologize.”

    “Tell me,” Holmes ordered, his mouth a thin line as he forced his grey eyes to remain steady and not betray the nervousness he could feel fluttering in his stomach.  

    “It is an affliction of which there is not much known, but many suffer from.  Including myself,” Watson answered calmly.  At Holmes’ astonished look, he continued before the other could regain his speech and ask questions to which he had no answers. “It is called Soldier’s Heart, a condition which has been noted in many returning veterans both here and in America. In fact, it was only after the American Civil War that the illness was discovered.”

    “That is preposterous, Watson!” Holmes growled, crossing his legs sharply as he turned his head, glaring out the window at the trees being lashed by the wind.  “I am not a soldier.  I have never  been in a battle and I never -”

    “You were in a battle for three long years, Holmes!” Watson interrupted sharply, hands clenched on his thighs as he leaned forward.  “There may have been no formal battleground or declaration of war, but you were fighting for your life as surely as any soldier!”

    “Stop it,” Holmes hissed, eyes closing tight.  

    “I will not.  You may not wish to hear it, Holmes, but you suffer from an affliction which I have seen too many times to doubt.   That I have suffered from myself!  Do you not think I can recognize the signs in you that I once endured?”

    “You are a hero!” Holmes protested, finally turning his gaze back to his friend.  “You were wounded for your country and nearly died!  Do not place me in so vaulted company, Watson, for I do not deserve the honor and I know it!”

    “And what of you, Holmes?” Watson demanded angrily, his permanently tanned face starting to color.  “Do you not think a gunshot wound which caused a fortnight’s worth of fever and delirium enough of a sacrifice?  Or how about giving up three years of your life to ensure the safety of those you care about and the city you love?  Is that not exactly what a soldier does?”

    “I was selfish!” Holmes yelled, standing in his agitation and  moving over to his chemical table, sweeping a pile of notes onto the floor with a swipe of his arm.  “Unlike you, Watson, I did not run away to protect Queen and country.  I ran because I was frightened and - and -”

    Holmes pressed a hand to his chest, grimacing as pain flared beneath his breast, gasping for breath as the anger abruptly departed.  Strong hands gripped his shoulders, led him back to his chair and forced him to resume his seat.

    “Listen to me!” Watson ordered harshly, moving his hands to Holmes’ cheeks, cupping his face and forcing the other man to meet his eyes.  “For God’s sake, Holmes, listen to me!  Do you think I wish this curse on you? On any of us?  It is what it is, and there is no changing that!  But it does get better!” he assured desperately, shaking Holmes’ head slightly in his earnestness.  “I have treated many men who, with rest and care, recover almost completely!  Look at me!  It has been how many years since Afghanistan, and if not for this damnable limp, none would ever guess that I was ever so indisposed.  But it takes time!”  His fingers tightened slightly in his anxiousness, wishing  with all his might for his friend to listen to his every word.  “You have to give yourself time, Holmes.  Time to recover, time to - to rest and remember who and what you are.”

    They stared into each other’s eyes, blinking away the tears which threatened them both.   Holmes’ face was ghostly pale beneath the hands still holding him, his breath ragged and short as he processed everything he had been told.  

    “Do you trust me?” Watson finally asked, his own voice no longer as steady as he would have liked and hoarse with his emotions.

    “With everything I am,” Holmes promised instantly.  

    “Then please, Holmes.  Please, do as I tell you and try not to exhaust yourself.  You’ve fought for a very long time, and you’ve earned a rest.  Your brother and I only want what’s best for you, but you make it damnably hard sometimes when you fight us!” Watson added, attempting to smile as he finally released his hold and stood.

    “I explained to your brother last night that you were suffering from an ailment with no specific cure, but that with time and care, you should be back to yourself and fully capable of once more putting Scotland Yard to shame. As you can imagine he was much relieved that young Jasper’s conclusion that you were dying was incorrect,” he finished wryly.

    Holmes managed a weak smile, but the doctor could tell he was still bothered and was therefore not surprised at his next question.  
      
    “This is a disease of the mind then, not the body?" Holmes asked softly, hesitantly.        
      
    As though he were afraid of the answer.

    Watson cupped Holmes’ chin tenderly with his hand once more, this time with a supreme gentleness as he looked down at him.  "It is a disease of unendurable stress to the mind  and spirit which expresses itself in the body.  Your heart is sound, yet it pains you.  Your body is exhausted, yet you cannot sleep, or sleep as though you shall never wake again.  Complaints which are normally only a tedious bother at times become all too common, such as stomach troubles and headaches.  There is no one specific symptom, but an amalgamation of all that the body has endured.   Each man is different, yet there is a common thread which runs through the ailment.  It was how I was able to diagnose you.”  Watson paused, wetting his lips.  “I did not want to spring to conclusions without having all the evidence, so I have not explained this to you before.  After all,” Watson added, his eyes filling with mischief.  “Are you not the one who said that we must suit theories to data, and not data to suit theories?  I was merely trying to apply your methods.”

    Holmes snorted as his own expression lightened, the atmosphere in the room no longer filled with the horrible strain which had seemed to thicken the very air.    When he spoke next, Watson could tell he was making an effort to keep his voice even.

    “How long must I endure this rest cure?  Weeks?  Months?”  Holmes paused, then forced the next words out thickly.  “Years?”

    “There is no set time,” Watson answered as gently as he could.  “It depends on how seriously you take the condition and devote yourself to healing.  It could be months, or even a year, before you are fully recovered enough to resume your detective work.  But you must not think of it in such terms!” Watson scolded, tapping Holmes’ cheek lightly in admonishment.  “It is a holiday!  You are going to rest and recover and before you know it you’ll be terrorizing the criminals and Scotland Yard indiscriminately!”

    “Yes, well,” Holmes sighed, offering up a genuine smile.  “At least there are no farmer’s daughters near the estate to be forced upon my person.”  
      
    “There’s the spirit!” Watson laughed, and the last of the tension broke between them.  “Now,” Watson clapped his hands, rubbing them together briskly.  “We have a lot of packing to do and plans to arrange.  I suggest we get started, if you have no further questions?”

    “Only one,” Holmes admitted, standing as well and gazing accusingly at the other man.  “Who is going to break this to Mrs. Hudson?”

    At Watson’s slightly horrified expression, the detective could not help but smile.  

    There was little talk over the next several hours as arrangements were made.  Suitcases were packed, wardrobes prepared for an extended leave, and train tickets purchased.  Watson had to make arrangements for his remaining patients, and so combined the last two chores into one foray. When he returned, train tickets procured and patients mollified that he was not leaving them in the lurch, it was to see Holmes finishing a late tea with Mrs. Hudson, the two of them for once engaged in peaceable discussion.  

    “…course you may utilize it while we are away.  It would be a waste to have it go unused,” Holmes was saying, cup held in one hand and biscuit in the other, as though he had forgotten that he was eating.  

    “I must say, Mr. Holmes, that I am looking forward to the concert next week. I doubt it would be to your taste, a Gilbert and Sullivan anthology, but my old bones find it quite pleasing,” Mrs. Hudson confided, taking a sip of her tea and motioning for Holmes to do the same.  

    “Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling at the domestic setting before him.  “Is there a cup for me?”

    “Of course,” Mrs. Hudson assured, sounding only slightly insulted.  “And those apricot biscuits you like so much,” she added slyly.   

    “Lovely!” Watson crowed, pouring a cup and then helping himself to a plate of the delicious snacks.  “What are we talking about?” he asked as he sat beside Holmes on the settee.  Mrs. Hudson was in his chair, after all.    

    “I have offered Nanny the use of our box at the opera while we are away,” Holmes informed him, winking at the doctor as Mrs. Hudson mock scowled.  “Since we had just purchased it for the year, it would be foolish to let it go to waste.”

    “Agreed.”  

    Watson smiled as he sipped gingerly from his cup, content for the moment to sit back and enjoy the peace.  “Truly  lovely, Mrs. Hudson, as always.”

    “Thank you, Doctor,” she blushed, smiling sweetly at both men.

    The talk moved on to other matters after that, trivialities and gossip that had Watson secretly picturing two old ladies nattering over their afternoon tea.  He had to cough to stop the giggle from emerging at the image, and waved away their concern with a smile.  It was very easy, indeed, to nibble on his biscuits and enjoy the company of those he considered his family.

***

    The train departed at 9:37 the next morning.  Due to their preparations the day before they were able to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before making it to the station on time.  The journey would take several hours, and each man had brought along reading material to keep them occupied, should their talk falter or the swaying of the car prove too much.  

    Loath as he was to admit it, Holmes suffered from motion sickness sometimes, and reading seemed to help steady his stomach when little else would.  

    Gladstone, curled up on the floor next to Watson’s feet, grumbled and sighed as the train lurched into motion, the steady rhythm and clacking already easing a tension in his shoulders Holmes had not been aware of.  

    “Now that I have you to myself with no distractions,” Watson said after a comfortable several minutes had passed, “tell me of your misadventures.  Not all of them,” he assured at Holmes’ scowl, waving down the other man’s ire with a calming hand.  “The ones that had a direct bearing on your health.  Surely there were not so many that you cannot relate a few.”  

    “Really, Watson,” Holmes sighed, crossing his legs primly and glaring out the window.  His good cheer of before had not completely vanished, but Watson could tell it had been dimmed.

    “I am not asking for a complete history, Holmes,” Watson soothed, daring to lean forward and put a hand on the other’s knee.  “But I think you left quite a lot out of the telling the other day, and if I had known some of what I do now - it would have been easier to come to a diagnosis.”

    Another sigh, this one resigned, and then Holmes said, “Very well.  But remember, there is three years’ worth of misadventure,” he warned.  At Watson’s nod, he continued.  

    “Shortly after I left the falls, I was not in the best of conditions.  I was exhausted and slightly battered from the fight, but nothing a few days of rest in a local hay barn didn’t cure.  Truly, Watson,” he huffed in exasperation, scowling down at his feet.  “Asking me to recount every broken finger or sprained ankle is like asking me to count the number of petals in a bouquet.  I can do it, but it will be long and tedious and not worthy of my time.”  

    “How about this one, then?” Watson asked, undeterred, pointing to a spot on Holmes’ left side, just below the third rib, where a long, thin scar had caught his attention during his initial examination.  He had not asked then, fearing that such an inquiry would cause his friend undue stress, but now was willing to try and assuage his curiosity.

    “Ah… that.”  Holmes coughed and turned his attention back to the passing landscape, a slight tinge of color appearing on his cheeks.  “That was a rather… unique… situation.  My attention was not - well, it was not where it should have been, and I blame the damn goat entirely!”

    “Goat?” Watson asked incredulously, and Holmes’ blush deepened. “What in the world were you doing that a goat was able to get the better of you?”

    “I was bathing in a stream,” Holmes said with as much dignity as he could muster.  “It was something that I had not had a chance to do for quite some time - well, I was rather - I was enjoying the water,” he finished, and Watson observed in fascination as the blush crept further down Holmes’ neck.  

    “Enjoying the water?” he asked skeptically, his own voice dropping an octave as he tried to picture the scene.   Disturbingly, he found it all too easy to imagine a naked, wet Holmes enjoying more than just the water during his bath, and if the blush was any indication, that was exactly what his friend had been doing.

    “Yes,” Holmes said shortly, clearing his throat.  By the way he avoided Watson’s gaze, the doctor was nearly certain his guess was correct.  “It was August, and the creek was quite comfortable. I admit I was not paying as - strict attention - as I should have been.”

    Holmes felt his blush deepen as he remembered exactly what had caused his distraction.  He closed his eyes in remembrance, picturing the small creek in his mind‘s eye.  The sun had been nearly too warm, he thought fondly, and he had scrubbed a week’s worth of grime from his body before taking himself in hand and stroking off to the gentle current which had lapped around his thighs.  

    Even before his perilous flight, it had been an activity in which he rarely indulged, but for some reason, free from pursuit for the first time in months and with no greater place to be than wherever he chose that night, he had allowed himself to relax his guard enough to enjoy the experience.    
      
    “Anyway,” he continued, clearing his throat with a discreet cough.  He met Watson’s gaze briefly before turning his attention once more to the view outside.  By the look he had seen in the doctor’s eyes, however, Holmes was certain he had guessed as to his actions.  “I was attempting to dress when I heard a rustling in the reeds.  My revolver was nowhere to be found, and I feared I had made a grave error when…”

    Holmes covered his eyes with his hand as he felt his blush deepen for an entirely different reason.

    “When?” Watson prompted, leaning forward in his seat.    
      
    “When a goat presented itself where the rustling had been.  I thought at once that I could relax my guard and turned my back to try and find my gun.  Well, damnit, there were two of the blasted beasts and the second one pushed me from behind into a pile of deadwood.”

    Watson’s surprised laughter was warm and rich, and Holmes found himself smiling ruefully despite himself as he continued.  

     “I cut myself on one of the larger pieces, had to stitch myself up.  And the stupid creature tried to eat my shirt!“ he added indignantly.  “Let me assure you, Watson, the very next village I came to, I dined on goat!”

    “Oh, Holmes,” Watson managed to gasp between his chuckles, wiping his eyes as he tried to calm himself.  “It truly must have been a wonderful creek for you to become so… distracted.”

    “Yes, well.”  Holmes shifted slightly in his seat, thankful his legs were crossed. He had not thought of that creek - or his actions-  in a long while.  “It had been too long since I had…enjoyed… such a luxury.”

    “ I am sorry your enjoyment of such a rare moment was ruined,” Watson said regretfully, his mirth faded as he gazed at his friend, eyes becoming more serious, though his smile remained firmly fixed in place, and a touch of color had appeared on his cheeks.  “Perhaps you may find other such moments at the Estate.”

    Holmes blinked, staring at Watson uncertainly as the meaning in his words sank in.  He had been fairly certain that Watson had understood what had distracted him, but surely the doctor couldn’t be suggesting…. Could he?

    “Yes, well, perhaps,” he agreed, daring to meet the other’s gaze for the first time since the embarrassing tale had begun.  “It has been far too long since… well, since such moments have presented themselves.  Maybe it is time I - well, I try to enjoy them more, now that I’m back.”

    “Yes,” Watson agreed, and Holmes had never quite heard that tone before.  It was deep, and filled with something that he could not quite place, but sounded suspiciously like longing. “Perhaps a similar creek may be found at your brother's estate, and you may show it to me."

    Unwillingly his gaze dropped to Watson’s lap, and he was startled to see a bulge in the otherwise perfectly tailored trousers.  

    So he was not the only one affected by the discussion, Holmes thought to himself, and shifted slightly in his seat to ease his own discomfort.  Suddenly uncertain as to where things were going or what was happening between them, he turned his attention once more to the window.  

    “Holmes, forgive me,” Watson murmured softly.  “I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.  Please tell me that such... moments... were not so very rare for you while you were away."

    The doctor’s voice had returned to normal, losing the deep quality that had sent a shiver down Holmes’ back.  Surprising himself, Holmes realized he missed it.  He looked back to his friend and tried to smile reassuringly.  

     "Watson, I don't...." he began, only to cut himself off.  He took a deep breath and continued with only a slight hesitation. "Such moments in my life have always been rare."

    Watson frowned at the implication, and the teasing, playful mood of before vanished.  When he spoke next, it was slowly, as though trying to find the correct words without insulting the other man.  "Holmes, I ask this next question purely as your doctor.  Have you had any such moments since your return?"

    Holmes sputtered, staring in horror at his friend and the straightforward question.  "I - Watson- you can't  just -  I am not going to  answer that!  It is not your business!”

    “Holmes,” Watson sighed, ran a hand over his face, and then moved to sit beside him.  He tried not to smile as Holmes turned his back and crossed his arms over his chest.    "Holmes.  I am not asking to embarrass you.  It is a perfectly natural function in any male.  The - lack - of such a function could have a medical reason."

    “You keep reminding me that bodily functions are perfectly natural,” Holmes growled, his self defensive position easing slightly.  “Yet that does not excuse your bringing them up all the time!  Let it go, Watson!”

     "No, Holmes,“ Watson insisted, daring to place a hand on one tensed shoulder.  “I am not going to let this go because it may embarrass you.  We have been through far too much. You should know that in this, as in all things, you have my discretion and my support."

     "Oh, for God's sake, Watson!  Yes, I have had - I have - Yes! " Holmes snapped, pulling away from his friend to stand up, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cigarette case and lighting one with quick, agitated motions.  

    As he did so, Watson could not help but notice the outline of a budding erection through his friend’s trousers, and studiously turned his attention to the floor to preserve Holmes’ dignity.  He felt a smile twitch his lips, though, as he realized that he had not been the only one affected by the conversation and what it entailed.  

      “Was there anything else I should be made aware of?” he finally asked as Holmes continued to pace, though his movements had calmed down to a steady rhythm, as though he were contemplating things rather than just reacting.  At his words, Holmes looked up, confused by the subject change.   “A missing limb, perhaps, that you had reattached without telling me?”  Watson elaborated.

    He was rewarded by one of Holmes’ rare, brilliant smiles, and found himself grinning in return.  

    “Alas, not even the mystics of Katmandu have that level of medical magic, my dearest Doctor," Holmes assured him, taking a final drag on his cigarette before moving to throw it out the window, resuming his seat easily and even going so far as to bump their shoulders.  

    “Well then, were there any other embarrassing tales I should be made aware of?” Watson teased, moving so his knee brushed Holmes’ companionably.  The detective did not pull away.

    “Well, there was that time I fell down the stairs and broke a rib.  Very clumsy of me, I must admit,” Holmes sighed dramatically.

    “You fell down the stairs?” Watson asked, incredulous. He had never known anyone to be as graceful as Holmes, and the thought was almost inconceivable.  

    “I had been running rather low on sleep, Watson, and I fear was not at my best,” Holmes admitted with a sheepish grin.  

    “I should imagine not!”  Watson agreed.  “What then?”

    The rest of the train ride passed in easy conversation, their shoulders  and legs touching as they talked.  Neither man acknowledged what had passed between them, but when the train began to slow at their destination, it was with reluctance that they moved from their comfortable positions.  

***

    The Chichester Estate was a massive, sprawling compound that seemed to loom above them as the cart jostled along the well worn lane.  Watson could feel his eyes widen as the true extent of his friend’s wealth and background rose before him.

    “It is not as grand as you think,” Holmes murmured in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring voice.  “It was a gift from a very well to do member of the royal household for a service fulfilled by my great -great grandfather.”

    “You said you were country squires, once,” Watson managed to mumble, unable to tear his gaze away from the house.  

    “We were,” Holmes agreed, placing a hand on the other’s arm to draw his attention away from the building.  “Trust me, Watson, if there was any wealth to be had in my family, it has long since been squandered until all that remains is what you see before you.  Mycroft inherited it as the eldest son, but in truth neither one of us can abide the place for longer than a few months, and so it remains mostly in the hands of the servants.”

    Here the detective smiled, a faint, almost wistful expression on his worn face.  “They have been with the family for as long as the Estate, and a more loyal group you will never find.”

    “If that is the case I can see why neither of you visit very often,” Watson murmured, grinning at the fond expression.  “I can’t picture either of you having the patience to be waited on.”

    “Indeed,” Holmes agreed, his smile growing.  “I remember Mrs. Everman tending me when I was a child, every bit a nanny to me as my own,” he added distastefully.  “I’m afraid she never quite outgrew the habit.”

    The two fell silent, Watson’s eyes once more returning to the house as they continued toward their destination.  It was a large, peach colored affair with many windows and a solid framework, and he could not help but wonder about the service performed to earn such a marvelous estate.  The trees which lined the lane were old growth, their branches blocking out the Spring sun as they swayed and creaked in the breeze.  

    “They do know we are coming, correct?” Watson could not help ask, turning a slightly worried frown to his friend.  “It was such a short notice, will they -”

    “Mycroft will have informed them, and they are always prepared for one of us to visit.  With his services in such demand, it is not very often that my brother can leave work for any length of time, and when he does, it is at a moment’s notice.  The servants have come to expect such things, and there are at least three rooms always prepared for guests.”  At Watson’s raised eyebrow, Holmes rolled his eyes. “Mycroft cannot always leave his work behind him, and will often drag it along.”

    The doctor chuckled at the image this simple statement produced, and Holmes found his grin widening at the sound.  Truly, the doctor did not laugh nearly enough.

    “We will have the house to ourselves for the most part.  The servants sleep in their own quarters, with Mrs. Everman keeping an eye on things to keep order and mischief to a minimum,” Holmes added, eyes glinting.  “Her husband is the groundskeeper, and her son lives in the little cottage just behind the house with his family.  They maintain the property and take care of the day to day business.  I believe Norton has a daughter, six or seven, but she is very well behaved and minds her manners.  The family knows that Mycroft does not like to be disturbed, so she’s mostly kept out of the way.”

    “You speak of her as though she were a kept pet,” Watson reproached, tapping Holmes’ knee.  

    “Watson, when have I ever given any indication that a child is anything more, save for when they can be of use as one of my little army?” Holmes asked, his expression honestly confused.  “They tend to be pampered, sticky little things who make the most appalling sounds at inconvenient hours.”

    “Oh, Holmes,” Watson sighed, closing his eyes as he covered his face with his hand, though it was mostly an act to keep the detective from seeing his amused smile.  

    “Truly, Watson, you act as though this is a surprise,” Holmes continued, sitting back and eyeing his friend narrowly.  “If I didn’t know better I would say you were even…enamored of the species.”

    “They’re not -” Watson protested, but gave up the argument immediately as he dissolved into helpless laughter.  

    Holmes sniffed his disdain and turned his attention back to their approach, dismissing his friend’s obvious insanity as a momentary lapse.  

***

    Mrs. Everman was a stout, grey-haired woman with kindly eyes who reminded Watson at once of every grandmother he had ever met.  She was waiting for them upon the steps to the giant front door, her plain blue dress half hidden by a white apron.  When the cart pulled to a stop and the two men dismounted, she called out a happy greeting and surged forward, wrapping Holmes in a hug so large Watson could not help but be impressed.

    “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I’m so happy to see you again!” she cried.  

    “Thank you, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes managed, and to Watson’s amusement enfolded her in an awkward embrace of his own.  

    “You gave me a right fright, you did!” she suddenly snapped, shoving him away and slapping his arm reproachfully.  “Turned the rest of my hair grey!”

    She did not give Holmes a chance to respond, turning her attention instead to Watson and giving him the same enthusiastic greeting.   He was a bit astounded at her strength as he struggled to take a deep breath, patting her back a bit gingerly.

    “And you must be Mr. Holmes’ doctor I’ve heard so much about!” she said, finally pushing him back far enough to observe him at arm’s length.  “Good on you, sir, for bringing him here. I was about to head up and grab him by the ear if I didn't hear from him soon, I was!"  
      
    “Mrs. Everman -” Holmes started to protest, only to be silenced when she turned a steely gaze his way, poking him in the chest with a thick finger.

    “And don’t you be narrowing your eyes at me, young man.  Goodness, what have you been doing to yourself?   You're skin and bones still!  Come in, come in, I've had the pot boiling all day, the stew should be ready soon and I have tea all set out!”  

    She turned, leading the way inside and gesturing for them to follow.  

    “That, my dear Watson, is Mrs. Everman,” Holmes sighed before looping his arm through the other man’s and urging him forward.  “Trust me, it is far easier to do as she says than to fight.”

    “You, giving up?” Watson asked incredulously, looking around the well lit entranceway as he did so.

    “Trust me, Watson.  Only a fool fights a losing battle with any expectation of winning.  Mrs. Everman would have made many a general proud, had she ever deigned to give them her advice.”

    “Come along!” The woman in question’s voice floated out to them from the first room to the left, an elegant sitting room with several wingback chairs and a table already prepared with tea and several plates of sweets.  

    “You poor things, you both look done in!” she cooed, bustling about the room as she did so, righting pillows and grabbing an afghan off the back of the couch. “Sit down, Mr. Holmes, and enjoy a cup.  You’re looking peaked!”

    “Truly, Mrs. Everman, I am fine!” Holmes protested as his arm was taken and he was led to a chair.  Watson had to fight to keep from laughing at his expression when the blanket was thrown over his shoulders.  “Watson is an excellent doctor and has been taking very good care of me!”

    “Yes, and I can see just how exhausting that must have been!” she scolded, patting Holmes’ cheek gently.  “Poor thing is just about as worn as you.  Sit down, Doctor, sit down!  There’s cream and sugar, and sugar is always good after a long journey.”

    Watson did as instructed, though he was thankfully spared having a blanket of his own, and was allowed to pour the tea for himself.

    “You boys enjoy yourself.  I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.  Just call out and one of the girls will be in shortly,” she said brusquely.  She wiped her hands on her apron and cast her gaze around the room once more before heading out.  “I expect to see at least two of those sweets eaten!” her voice called from the hallway.

    “Well.”  Watson cleared his throat as he took a sip of his tea, closing his eyes at the rich flavor.  “She is certainly…”

    “Yes, she is,” Holmes sighed, and reached for one of the pastries.  “I did try to warn you.”

    “Yes, yes you did,” Watson agreed, laughing slightly at the ridiculousness of the situation.    “Truly, Holmes, you never cease to surprise me.”  At his friend’s questioning eyebrows, Watson continued.  “You’ve escaped thieves, murderers, and assassins.  But escaping her?  My hat is off to you!”

    “Oh, hush!” Holmes scowled, and sipped delicately from his cup.  “She may hear you,” he added a moment later.

    The both of them could not refrain from their laughter anymore, and they sat snickering like two little school boys throughout the rest of their tea.

***

    After they had eaten enough to assuage Mrs. Everman, they set out for a leisurely stroll around the house, Holmes pointing out things of interest and Watson trying to take everything in.  

    The property was not as large as it had first appeared, though it was so meticulously groomed and laid out that it gave the appearance of a much larger estate.  The paths wound around in such a way that it was several hours later when they returned to the house, flushed from the chill spring air and each other’s company.

    “You two go get dressed for dinner.  Edwin has taken your bags to your rooms and all should be put away,” Mrs. Everman greeted them as they walked back inside, grinning at their appearance.  “Go on, now, and dinner will be ready as soon as you are.”

    The two of them climbed the stairs, Holmes leading the way as he ventured down a short hallway to a suite of rooms.  He motioned for Watson to follow him in and indicated a door on the far right.

    “That will be your room, old cock.  I know it’s a bit unusual to have rooms attached, but since it is usually only Mycroft, or Mycroft and his business that stays here, these were already prepared.  I hope you don’t -”

    “Hush, Holmes,” Watson murmured, smiling at his friend fondly.  “It’s fine.  This way I can keep an eye on you,” he added teasingly.  

    “Oh, yes,” Holmes sighed, scrunching his face up in distaste.  “Wouldn’t do for me to be on my own, would it?”

    “Hush,” Watson scolded again absently, making a quick circuit of the room before heading towards his.  “You’re being silly.”

    Before Holmes could form an appropriate response, the other man was already through the door and exploring his own room.  Feeling put upon and wearied, Holmes acquiesced to the inevitable and set about changing his clothes.  With the both of them against him, he knew a battle would be useless.  

***  
    Dinner was a thick stew with a warm, chewy bread.  It was a simple affair, though with such short notice Watson could not blame the housekeeper for choosing a simple yet filling meal.  

    The two men ate alone in the dining room, the large table which could comfortably sit eight elegantly placed for two.  The meal was delicious, and shortly after they retired to the library for brandies and cigars.  

    They had just sat down before the roaring fire, Holmes with a random book pulled from the shelf, when Mrs. Everman came in, for once not bustling about and doing a handful of things at once.

    “If you’ll not be needing me for the night, I’m going to turn in, Mr. Holmes,” she said.  

    “Of course, Mrs. Everman.  We should be fine, thank you!  Dinner was fabulous, as always!” Holmes assured her, smiling gently.

    “Thank you,” was the simple reply before she turned her attention to Watson.  “This is for your leg, Doctor.  My William swears by it, says it’s the only thing allowing him to keep up with the boys these days.  It will ease what aches have settled in,” she assured, handing Watson a thick towel which smelled faintly herbal.  

    “Thank you,” Watson hastened to say, eyeing the towel in confusion.  “Truly, there was no need, I assure you. I am a doctor -”

    “Oh, tish,” she said, waving away his complaint.  “I’ll see you boys in the morning.”

    She left them to their evening, and despite his reservations, Watson placed the warmed towel over his leg with a shrug at Holmes amused look.  

    “It probably works better on the flesh, but you can see to that tonight,” was Holmes only comment.  

    After that, there as no more talk of Mrs. Everman or her poultices, but rather a rambling, lengthy discussion about whatever crossed their minds.  From ship building to rare flowers which were cultivated on the grounds to various pieces of music, the two men talked late into the night until, yawning, they headed up to their rooms and the promise of sleep.

***

    The next day passed much as the first, as did the second.  Their mornings started around nine, when they would head down together for a hearty breakfast, followed by more rambles around the estate and countryside.  Lunch, as long as the weather held, was eaten outside, followed by a nap for Holmes and a few hours of peaceful reading for Watson.  Then dinner and another few hours in the library.

    Though Watson found his sleep undisturbed, he knew that Holmes could not say the same by the dark circles which continued to underline his weary eyes.  He did not comment, however, even when on the third day, which dawned brilliantly sunny and warm, Holmes looked more wearied and beaten than he had previously.  He resolved to confront his friend on the matter if a better rest was not achieved that night, and determinedly set about enjoying the day.  

    A stable, small in comparison to many Watson had seen, housed three fine horses, and it was decided that a ride would be a welcome distraction from Holmes’ depression, which seemed to be growing rather than diminishing with his lack of sleep.  

    They set out shortly after their morning meal, the horses patient and sturdy as they ambled along paths which led out to the countryside.  Neither man spoke for nearly an hour, until they came to a small pond ringed by weeping willows and reeds.  

    “It’s lovely,” Watson observed as he dismounted, grimacing only slightly as his bad leg twinged.  Surprised as he was to admit it, Mrs. Everman’s poultice had worked wonders.  “Is this still your land?”

    “Yes,” Holmes answered, eyeing the pond with a nervous flutter in his chest.  

    He had not meant to bring the doctor here, or at least, he admitted to himself, he had not intended to bring him here after their conversation on the train.  The implications were…suggestive, and he was not certain at all that either man was prepared to face those suggestions.  

    As it was, however, the path they had wandered had been one of his favorites from childhood, and it had been instinct to lead his horse down its well worn trail, content to enjoy the sunshine and the company.

    Watson, eyeing his companion closely, could for once follow Holmes’ thoughts easily enough, as his own had reached the same conclusion as soon as the pond came into view.  He doubted that his friend had consciously brought him here, but the results were the same, and he thought it time to test the waters a bit, so to speak.

    “Do you think it’s warm enough for a dip?” he asked lightly, determinedly turning his gaze back to the water.  The pond was not overlarge, and looked free from scum and vegetation.  “According to Norton, the weather’s actually been warmer than usual, and a bit of a dunk might do us good.”

    He could feel Holmes’ eyes on his back, and, gathering his courage, turned to meet his gaze.  He was unsurprised to see the conflicting emotions warring within his friend; longing battled with caution and suspicion, and fear could be seen behind it all.  

    “I’ll race you, if you think you stand a chance of winning,” he challenged, forcing his face into a smirk when Holmes narrowed his eyes, his expression suddenly insulted and the emotions once more hidden behind a carefully erected wall of wounded dignity.  

    Without a word, Holmes dismounted and removed his waistcoat. It had been too hot for jackets, so neither man had too many layers to remove before they were both in their small clothes, eyeing each other warily.  

    “Go!” Holmes suddenly shouted, and took off for the pond as though fleeing for his life.

    Watson, prepared for such a move, was right beside him, and the two barely paused before jumping feet first into the frigid water.  

    “Oh, good Lord!” Watson yelped when he broke the surface, sputtering with the cold.  

    “Yes, not quite what I had expected,” Holmes agreed, already making his way back to the edge of the pond.  

    He had not gone far, however, before he was seized from behind and half thrown, half carried, back into the now murky water, both men gasping and laughing as they wrestled.  

    Flesh made slippery by water slid along his hands as Holmes attempted to grapple Watson into a better position, and the doctor was having no more success in trying to best him.  They tumbled and splashed and wrestled until out of breath, and only when their teeth were chattering did they escape to the embankment, climbing out to lay along the sun warmed grass as they breathed heavily.

    Holmes turned, mouth open to ask about the success of the race, when he stopped, staring openly at Watson’s thoroughly tousled figure.

    His smallclothes, a two-piece cotton affair that buttoned down the front and ended at his knees, clung to the doctor’s  muscular form, the white fabric hiding nothing of his build.  His nipples, a dark brown against the nearly see-through material, were constricted into narrow points by the cold, and the different muscles of his stomach, outlined by the clinging fabric, could just be made out if he stared hard enough.

    And Holmes was staring very hard at Watson’s stomach, because he knew that if he were to look lower, he would see his friend’s member as clear as if there were no barrier to his flesh.

    “Holmes,” Watson whispered, and the sound of his name brought him back to himself, looking up in horrified shock at his own actions, an apology already forming.

    The words died on his lips as he realized that the other man was staring just as intently at him, (cheeks flushed despite the cold, eyes dilated in arousal, tongue wetting lips in nervous habit) eyes taking in all of Holmes’ form greedily, as though afraid he would miss something.

    A tension seemed to form around the two of them, a band which stretched between their bodies and constricted, leaving them both breathless and aching to move.  It was Watson who did so, propping himself up on his right elbow and leaning towards Holmes, until he was looking down at him with an intent, searching gaze.  

    Slowly, he moved his left hand until he was cupping Holmes’ cheek, the soft stubble scratching his palm as he closed the distance between them, lips touching for just a moment before pulling back slightly to gauge his friend’s reaction.  
      
    Holmes stared up at him, wide eyed with pupils impossibly black, and licked his lips.  Taking that as a positive sign, Watson descended once more, pressing their lips together until Holmes opened his mouth slightly, the tip of his tongue tracing Watson’s lips and allowing him access.

    The two of them lay there for an eternity, kissing in the sunshine, exploring each other’s mouths until they were gasping for breath and hands were seeking purchase on slippery grass or clinging fabric.  They kissed until lips were swollen and red, and a dark flush colored both their cheeks.  

    Watson moved his lips over Holmes’ jaw, down his throat and under his ear.  Each location produced a breathless gasp of pleasure, and spurred him to explore further.    
Holmes, unlike Watson himself, wore only the bottom half of his underwear, which was doing little to hide his erection at the moment.  Both men were breathing heavily, though Watson refused to give in to his urge to hurry matters along.  

    Slowly he kissed his way down Holmes’ stomach, tasting the faintly brackish tang of the pond water and salt from the sweat which had sprung out over his friend’s chest.  He laved Holmes’ belly button with his tongue, pausing to inhale the scent of him before working his way back to kiss him deeply on the mouth, once more entwining their tongues together until both were nearly frantic with need.  Hands joined as easily as their breath, and fingers clenched.  

    “Watson,” Holmes managed to gasp out, voice thick and hoarse with need.  “We shouldn’t - we need to - oh, God!” he cried as teeth grazed a nipple, arching his back in pleasure.  

    Watson pulled away reluctantly, chest heaving with his desire as he stared greedily at the other man’s near naked form, and forced himself to sit back to put some space between them.  

    “We should head back,” he managed to say, voice breaking as he finally turned his gaze away from the man he considered his dearest and best friend.   “They may wonder where we have got to.”

    For a moment Holmes continued to lay on the ground, breath still unusually fast, before he nodded his head, closing his eyes as he willed his body into submission and managed to stumble to his feet.

    Watson fallowed his lead, but could not refrain from closing his hands round Holmes’ waist and dragging him close for another heated kiss.  Holmes’ hands wound through his hair, pulling on the wet strands as the kiss deepened.  Their erections bumped, sending a jolt of desire so strong through him that Watson feared he would release without any further stimulation.  From the stifled gasp against his mouth, he realized that Holmes was not much better off.  

    “We can’t - oh, yes!  We can’t go back like this,” Holmes gasped, rubbing his front against Watson’s in a lust filled desire to seek release.  “God, Watson!”

    Realizing how close both men were, Watson cast caution to the wind and reached down to wrap his hand around Holmes’ member through the cloth of his underwear.  The hard length twitched in his grasp, and it only took a few gentle pulls before he felt a warmth dampen the material, Holmes gasping his name as he buried his head against Watson’s shoulder and shuddered.  

    “Shhh,” Watson soothed, running his hand up Holmes’ bare back, feeling vertebra under the chilled flesh and muscles spasm with the force of his release.  “It’s all right, it’s all right, Holmes.”  
      
    When he was finished, breathing heavily and still twitching slightly, Watson released his now flaccid manhood and gripped himself tightly.  With only a single pull he was coming, biting his lip as his release washed over him, weakening his knees with the strength of it.  

    Finally, the two of them managed to part, looking at each other with astonished, wonder-filled eyes.

    Holmes licked his lips unconsciously, taking in Watson’s form as though seeing it for the first time, and found himself whispering, “I love you.”

    Both men froze as the words penetrated their sluggish brains, but when they did Watson’s eyes widened and then softened, his gaze so fond and adoring that Holmes had to look away lest he be undone by the emotions filling those blue, blue eyes.  

    “I love you, too,” Watson whispered back, and placed a gentle, chaste kiss to Holmes’ lips, savoring the feel of chapped skin on his own as he did so.  

    There was an awkward pause as both tried to figure out what was to happen next, neither one quite able to meet the other’s gaze.  A dark cloud obscured the sun, the men glancing up as they realized how much time had passed since they first set out.   

    “We had best head back,” Holmes said in a fair approximation of his normal voice, moving hesitantly away from Watson’s warmth to gather his clothing.  Watson did the same, though neither could resist casting furtive glances towards the other as they dressed, and it was only after they were fully clothed that they seemed able to rein their lingering gazes in.

    The horses had wandered some ways off, and it took them nearly a half hour to round them up once more.  By the time they had returned to the house for tea, both had nearly recovered their equilibrium and were able to hold normal conversation throughout.

    After, they took Gladstone for a walk around the grounds, arms looped companionably together.    They kept the conversation light, though neither could help brushing a hand across a shoulder or stealing a quick kiss when both were certain they were undetectable to any prying eyes.  

    Neither mentioned what had taken place between them, dressing for dinner in silence and in their separate rooms to ward off temptation.  After they had eaten, they did not linger long in the study as was their wont, but retired early with the excuse of the ride having tired them out.

    Mrs. Everman clucked at them good heartedly and sent them on their way, ordering a warm bath be prepared for them to ease whatever aches the unaccustomed ride would engender.  

    It was only after they had both washed away the remnants of the day and had donned their nightshirts that they firmly locked the doors to the outside world and fell into each other’s arms once more.  

    Their lips touched chastely at first, close mouthed, as their breath mingled.  Shared, like so many things in their life had been.  Watson’s fingers traced the hollow of Holmes’ throat, following the line of his collarbone, up to his neck, where he wound his hand in thick, still damp hair.  His other hand rested gently on Holmes’ hip, a warmth barely felt through the cotton.    
      
    He could feel Holmes’ heartbeat against his palm, the ragged edges of his breathing as each breath became more labored with passion.  His own stuttered in his lungs, at once too much and not enough.  

    “Have you ever…” Watson asked softly, his lips brushing against Holmes’, his tongue moving without conscious thought to intrude, robbing the other man of whatever reply he might have made.  Only when they were both gasping did he step back, swallowing hard the taste of tobacco, brandy and something that could only be defined as Holmes.  “Have you ever, before today?”

    “Never,” Holmes whispered, voice rough and tinged with a hoarseness Watson had only heard that morning, and found himself desiring to hear more.  

    “Do you want to?” Watson asked, trailing his fingers down a well defined arm, over the wrist and lingering over slender, nimble hands.  Holmes trembled against him, a slight twitching of the muscles that defied his usual iron control.  “Now?  With me?  We did not speak of this earlier, but -”

    Holmes leaned forward, resting his forehead against Watson’s chest in a move which was oddly shy as he answered in a voice barely above a breath, “Only with you, dear boy.”

    Their lips sought and found each other again, more daring as tongues entwined, bodies pressing closer with the weight of too many years.  Hardness brushed against hardness, and Holmes gasped into Watson’s mouth, the hand still entwined with the doctor’s squeezing tightly as the other clenched against a battle damaged thigh.  

    “Tell me what to do, “ Holmes pleaded, grey eyes closed against the terror  of  waking only to find that the day had been nothing more than a dream.  

    “Follow me,” Watson murmured gently, using the hand captured in his to lead his friend to the bed, the covers already turned down invitingly.   “Let me teach you, as you have taught me so much.  Let me guide you.”

    Holmes did not answer, his mouth too engaged with stealing more kisses, need surging through him as he trailed his lips down Watson’s neck, mouthing the fabric.  
      
    Watson shuddered, and when he fell to the bed, Holmes went with him, the two of them landing in a tangle of limbs until neither knew where one started and the other ended.  With a deftness made all the more impressive by his shaking hands, Holmes removed his nightshirt swiftly, eyes never leaving Watson’s sun-browned form as the doctor quickly divested himself of his own garment.  By the time nothing remained between them but skin, both were covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the warm air of the room  an embrace that surrounded them.  

    Deftly, Watson’s fingers wrapped gently around Holmes erect member, the other’s sharp intake of breath and tightly closed eyes reminding him of his friend’s inexperience.  Slowly he stroked , alternating between feather light caresses and a more forceful grip.      There had been little time, before, when all that he had wanted was to ease his friend’s need.  But now, in the silence of the bedchamber, he took his time, learning the wants and desires of the man he knew he had always, and would always, love.  

    When Holmes’ ragged breathing and shuddering reached new levels, Watson knew he was close, and without taking his eyes off his friend, he bent down and took the tip of his hardness into his mouth.  Salty, with a faintly bitter taste that clung to his palate, Watson swallowed the first wave of release, continuing to stroke the twitching length with a firm grasp as Holmes cried out softly, the sound muffled by one hand pressed tightly against his mouth.  

    Suddenly unable to hold off his own need, Watson used the hand not gripping Holmes to wrap around his own aching length, a few rough pulls sending him swiftly over the edge until neither man could do more than breathe deeply, twitching with aftershocks of almost too painful pleasure.  

    “I did not -” Holmes began, the hint of guilt in his voice too much for Watson, who silenced the words with a kiss.  

    “Tonight was for you, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered, forehead pressed to forehead.  “Tomorrow, and all the rest of our nights, will be for us both.”

***

    It had been a long time since John Watson had slept pressed close against another body.  Longer still since he had made love with someone for whom he cared so deeply that his chest ached with the fierceness of it. That it was Holmes who had this effect on him was irrelevant.  The other man had defied the polite rules of society for as long as Watson had known him. That he should do so again in the form of the person he loved seemed almost insignificant when compared to some of their more daring exploits.   

    Or perhaps it was the single most significant event of their lives;  Watson was not certain yet.   

    As he lay tangled amongst the blankets, his front pressed tightly against Holmes’ back, their hands entwined across the detective’s stomach, he allowed his sleepy thoughts to wonder at the events which had transpired that day.  

    They had drifted off to sleep not long after making love the second time, Holmes’ sheer exhaustion finally catching up to him as Watson had wiped a flannel tenderly over his still flushed body.  

    There were many scars on that lithe frame, hidden away from the world.  Watson had not seen the bullet wound which had precipitated his friend’s return before, as it had been hidden by his smallclothes during his physical.  But the puckered skin along Holmes’ right flank, just above his hip and dangerously close to his groin, could have been nothing else.  The flesh was still red and raised, not so very long healed that the scar tissue had begun to fade to white, as Watson’s own bullet wound had done.  

    The criss-cross of tissue and cratered flesh would always mar his shoulder, but he had found peace with that a long time ago.  Holmes, he knew, would disregard his body until it gave out on him, and small things like scars and near death experiences did little to faze him.    
          
    Watson breathed deeply of their mingled scents as he regarded his friend’s face, lax with sleep and the wrinkles which wreathed his eyes when awake smoothed away.  For all the many years that he had loved Holmes, and loved him he had, passionately and deeply, he had never dreamt that such a moment as this could exist.  

    Normally when one acquired a new lover there was so much to be said, so many confessions to make and secrets to tell.  With Holmes, however, they had known each other so long that words were superfluous, a loss of breath that could be put to better use in kisses and gasps of pleasure.

    Holmes twitched in his sleep, his hand tightening unconsciously in Watson’s, and a soft exhalation, almost a moan, escaped his parted lips.  Watson frowned as the heartbeat beneath his hand quickened, the chest rising in quick staccato bursts as though struggling for air.

    Nightmare.  

    “Shhhh,” he soothed, sitting up on his elbow to look down at the other man.  “Hush, Holmes.  Only a dream.  Nothing can hurt you here,” he whispered.  

    Whether it was the words themselves or the voice which had uttered them, Holmes calmed, his breath evening out once more and the slight grimace which had creased his brow fading until he was sleeping peacefully.  

    Watson waited a moment before laying his head back down, his own weariness pulling at his limbs as the uncommon exertions of the day started to catch up to him.  There was still much the two of them needed to discuss.  Holmes’ recovery was too important to allow it to be waylaid, no matter how amorous the distraction.  

    Then again, he thought, allowing his eyes to close as sleep began to pull him under.   Perhaps Holmes would defy the odds in this as well.

***

    They made love once more, with the sun still a distant promise.  Holmes had awakened first, frozen at the unfamiliar weight of a second body in his bed, before memories of the previous day caught up to him.  

    Warmth filled his face, his chest, and his usual morning stiffness, nestled against Watson’s firm thigh, twitched slightly at the thought of all that had happened.  He kept his eyes closed, savoring the quiet of the Estate, of Watson’s calm breathing, warm puffs of air which ghosted across his right nipple and left it tight with need.  

    He concentrated on slowing his own breaths and calming his heart, as a want his body had never before possessed tried to make itself known once more.  

    “Holmes?” Watson murmured, still more asleep than awake as he moved his head slightly to peer up at him with drowsy eyes.  “Everything all right?”

    “Fine,” Holmes assured, glad his voice was steady as he hesitantly moved his free hand to stroke through Watson’s hair.  It was soft, much softer than his own, and the fine, pale strands looked dark against his pallid fingers.   Slowly he moved them, caressing his dearest friend’s - his lover’s - head, before moving to touch a stubbled cheek.    
      
    Watson sighed in contentment, leaning into the touch, his nose rubbing against Holmes’ stomach in a manner which should not, in any way, have been adorable, yet that was the only word Holmes could think of.  When Watson shifted again, moving his left thigh to a more comfortable position, Holmes could not suppress his gasp at the sensation, and Watson stilled.  

    Then he did it again, this time deliberately, and the room suddenly filled with a thick tension, as though the very air had wrapped around them.  Holmes exhaled loudly as he moved his hips, slowly, into Watson’s warmth.  

    Before either could speak they were moving, Watson rising up to lay fully atop Holmes, pinning the other’s hands above his head as he ground down against him, need pushing them both as their members rubbed together in a delicious friction.  Holmes could not help the small gasp that escaped him, and Watson kissed him deeply, as though trying to capture it.  

    They did not speak, the only sounds their quiet moans and breathless urgings.  It did not take long before they both found their completion, and only after, when they lay twined together with their essence mixed upon their stomachs, did Holmes break the silence.

    “Must we speak of this?” he asked, pressing a chaste kiss to Watson’s forehead where it rested next to his on the pillow.

    “Yes,” Watson answered, just as softly.  “But for now, let me get us clean, and then a bit more sleep.  You still look exhausted, old boy.”

    Holmes smiled as Watson kissed him gently on the nose, a silly gesture that nonetheless left him feeling giddy.  When the doctor stood to make his way to the water pitcher near the bed, he watched in unabashed appreciation, marveling at the play of muscle along his friend’s backside and the firm buttocks.

    So much to discover, he thought as Watson made his way back with a now damp flannel.  So many secrets and hidden wonders to be revealed.  

    The front view was as impressive as the back, and Holmes could not help the smirk that tugged his lips at the sight of Watson’s flaccid member, and only when he dragged his gaze up to meet Watson’s did he realize a similar look graced the other’s face.

    “You are gorgeous,” Watson whispered, an echo of a greeting so long ago, when things had seemed nearly at their darkest.  How little they had realized back then, what they meant to each other.  

    Though Holmes imagined that, perhaps, they had begun to suspect.  Somewhere in the back of their minds, even as Watson prepared to set out upon married life and Holmes had begun to devote his attention to the fall of a madman, they had suspected.  

    As Watson removed the traces of their lovemaking from their bodies, Holmes allowed his limbs to grow heavy and his eyes to close.  The day had not yet begun, and there was still time.  Time to enjoy this quiet, this moment of peace that was all too rare.  Time to just bask in the warmth of his friend as he curled up next to him once more and pulled the blankets over them both.

    Time for them, and time for so much more than either had ever dreamed.  

***    

    The servants were well versed in Holmes’ habits, so there was no disturbance to their sleep, letting the two men wake on their own.  The sun had already fully risen, the  morning well on its way to being done by the time they managed to disentangle themselves and wash properly.

    “Do we have plans for today?” Holmes asked, running a brush through his wild tangle of hair as he looked over his shoulder to Watson’s room, where the doctor was studiously shaving.

    “Only for you to eat, rest, and perhaps take Gladstone and myself for a walk around the grounds,” Watson answered after a moment, running the razor over his left cheek, eyes determinedly set on the mirror and not on Holmes, who was donning fresh trousers and shirt.  “You look better this morning.”

    “I slept,” Holmes answered simply, a small smile tugging his lips as he moved to lean against the doorframe which stood between their rooms.  “Thank you.”

    Watson paused in his ablutions, looking over for the first time and taking in Holmes’ appearance.  The dark circles under his eyes had faded to twin smudges of color, and the shoulders which seemed incapable of being relaxed were now loose, the tension seeming drained from them.  

    “You’re welcome,” Watson smiled, his eyes lingering for just a moment on Holmes’ naked chest before determinedly turning back to his mirror.  Even as he resumed shaving, he could not help the quick glance at his friend’s reflection, watching him button his shirt with those slim, elegant fingers.

    “Ouch!”

    Watson sighed as he touched the small dot of blood which welled up along his jaw, frowning at Holmes’ knowing expression.  
      
    “Why don’t you go get dressed and let me finish in here?” he suggested, examining the small cut with a resigned sigh before resuming his grooming.  “And for heaven’s sake, Holmes,” he called to the other’s retreating back, “get rid of that stubble!  You’re starting to look like a savage!”

    There was no reply, but as Watson finished trimming his mustache he heard the sound of splashing and Holmes’ grumbles.  He smiled to himself and devoted the rest of his attention getting dressed.  It would not do, after all, to have the staff get suspicious.  

***

    Breakfast was a lazy affair, the two men descending the stairs together to the smell of bacon and eggs, Mrs. Everman calling a greeting to them as she passed them at on the landing.

    “There’s tea and toast already at the table!” she said as she carried a large, covered platter into the dining room.  “And you’re to eat at least a bit of everything, Mr. Holmes,” she warned, eyeing him narrowly as he took his seat.

    “That shan’t be a problem, Mrs. Everman.  I find myself strangely famished today!” he replied with a cheeky grin, already ladling a respectable size serving of eggs onto  his plate.

    Watson, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, followed suit, shooting  a glare Holmes’ way as soon as the housekeeper had left, his eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.   

    “Eat up,” Holmes said, still smiling smugly and ignoring the warning frown.  “Mrs. Everman is simply a fabulous cook!”

    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” the lady in question said as she bustled back in, a bowl filled with early season berries in hand.  She leaned over Holmes’ shoulder to place it conveniently between the two men, but froze as she stood back up, her eyes latched onto Holmes’ neck.

    “Is something wrong?” Holmes asked, his cheerful air fading at her stunned expression.

    “No!” she exclaimed too loudly, seeming to come back to herself and pulling her eyes away quickly from whatever had caught her attention.  “No, nothing is wrong at all!  In fact, everything is marvelous, Mr. Holmes!  Simply wonderful!” she gushed, startling both men by placing a motherly kiss on Holmes’ cheek.  “You eat up, young man.”

    As she turned to go, she absently patted Watson’s shoulder, humming to herself as she took her leave.

    For a  moment both men were too stunned to continue eating, staring after her retreating back before turning to share a confused look.  Watson felt the blood drain from his face as he realized what had caught Mrs. Everman’s attention.

    Just above Holmes’ collar, plainly visible below his ear, was a love bite, the outline unmistakable to any who had borne one before.  

    “Watson?” Holmes asked, startled at his companion’s pale complexion.  He reached across the table quickly and took his hand.  “What’s the matter, old boy?  You’re pale as a ghost!”

    “Holmes -”  He paused, took a deep breath, and said, very softly, “I think Mrs. Everman knows about the change in our relations.”  And then indicated with his free hand the mark upon the other’s neck.

    For a moment Holmes looked confused, uncertain what the doctor was referring to, before turning and picking up the gleaming silver creamer.  He angled it to catch his own reflection before setting it down very carefully.

    What color had filled his cheeks before vanished.

    “Bugger!”

    Watson could only agree.

    ***

    They continued to eat silently, their appetites diminished by the realization that their secret was no longer.  Both knew how effective gossip, even in a house as polite and respectful as theirs, got around.  By the end of the day, they fully anticipated all the servants knowing.

    “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Everman demanded as she came back in, a pitcher in her hand.  Her eyes took in the scene before her shrewdly, her wrinkled face filling with concern as she placed the pitcher on the table.  “Mr. Holmes?  You’ve lost all color, you have!  Are you ill?”

    “No, no,” Holmes assured her, gamely trying to smile up at her, though his expression remained sickly.  “I simply - that is -”

    “We hadn’t realized - I mean - We had thought -” Watson stammered.

    They stopped attempted to explain, sharing a helpless look.

    “Ahh,” Mrs. Everman sighed, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling as she smiled brightly.  

    “Don’t you be giving it a second thought, Mr. Holmes,” she said conspiratorially, patting his arm reassuringly.  “When I was a young lass, my William left so many marks on my neck my mother thought I had the plague,” she laughed, turning her indulgent expression to Watson, ignoring his stunned countenance as she deftly retrieved the pitcher and poured each man a glass of a sweet smelling juice.  “I must say, Mr. Holmes, I can’t tell you how happy I am you found yourself a nice young doctor.  My mother always wanted me to marry one, but not another man could best my William, and that’s the truth.  Now you two eat up,” she ordered, patting Watson on the arm again.  “Young things like you need all your energy!”

    She winked bawdily as she left, humming under her breath again.

    “Dear Lord,” Watson murmured, too stunned to know whether he wished to laugh with relief or sink under the table in mortified horror.

    “Just remember,” Holmes grumbled as he took a long sip from his glass as though it were the finest of spirits.  “This was all your idea.”

    “Actually,” Watson sighed, filling his fork with his now slightly cooled eggs.  “It was your brother’s.”

    As Holmes spit the juice across the table, Watson reflected that there were worse ways to start a day.

***

    Breakfast became a shortened affair after that, both men still flushed with the embarrassment of Mrs. Everman’s pronouncement and the knowledge that before lunch the whole of the staff would know about their relationship.  Escape seemed the better part of valor, and so they had hastily finished their plates, collected Gladstone, and set out to enjoy the fresh air and privacy.

    They walked companionably arm in arm, as was their habit, Gladstone ambling along happily beside them.  For nearly an hour they did not speak, each lost in their own thoughts and the quiet of the countryside.

    Holmes, who knew the land about the estate as well as any London street, allowed instinct to guide him, his mind too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his surroundings.  

    So many times the two of them had walked thus, shoulders brushing, arms entwined, that the change in their relationship added a surreal sense to what should have been commonplace.  

    Now, when Watson’s fingers brushed his thigh, or a hand was gently laid upon his own, it was not mere friendship which precipitated the action.  A touch which only days before had elicited nothing stronger than a warm sense of belonging in his chest suddenly had his heart beating furiously, his loins tightening with want, and his palms sweating.  

    He sighed, deeply, and tried once more to rein in the burning desire to simply drop the both of them to the ground and rut like an animal.  The very idea at once excited and repulsed him,  his flesh longing for Watson’s body, while his mind rebelled at the thought of them doing any such thing.  

     It was slowly driving him insane!  
      
    “Holmes?” Watson asked softly, finally breaking the silence between them, his eyes taking in his friend’s flushed face, his furrowed brow and his slightly trembling limbs.  So much had happened between them in such a short period of time that they had not considered ramifications or consequences.  Or regrets.

    The last thought had Watson tightening his fingers about Holmes’ hand, and they came to a stop beneath a giant oak, the massive tree trunk rising from a bed of spongy moss and ivy.  

    “What’s wrong, old boy?” the doctor asked hesitantly, uncertain if he could bear the thought of Holmes voicing any regret for what now lay between them.

    “I - I have never been in love before, Watson,” Holmes murmured, his gaze firmly fixed on the distant hills.  He feared he would not be able to get the words out if he looked into the worried eyes of the man who  had become everything to him.  He did not wish to hurt, but he was certain that to let the words lie dormant would cause an even more grievous injury over time.  “I find myself - uncertain - as to how I feel about it.”  
      
    Watson did not speak at this pronouncement, his endless patience once more prompting his friend to continue despite his misgivings.  

    “I - I have always regarded the human need for copulation as a messy, distracting affair.  Even such times as when I - when I took myself in hand, it was more out of a want for distraction than any real bodily desire.”  The words were spoken haltingly, as though forced out against his will, and he was flushed with embarrassment.   “You have heard my thoughts against the softer emotions and how they serve me no use.  And yet…”

    Finally, Holmes turned his troubled gaze to Watson, taking in his concerned blue eyes, the mustache trimmed with military precision, the permanently sun-bleached hair and browned skin.  He could not help the hand that rose and caressed the other man’s cheek, nor could he stop the treacherous waver which seemed to shake his entire frame.

    “And yet, I want nothing more than to compose a sonnet to your astonishing character, to kiss every inch of your flesh and know your body as intimately as I know mine.  I do not know what to do with these feelings, Watson!”

    This last declaration was said with so much frustration and despair that Watson could do nothing else save gather his friend in his arms and hold him tightly, Holmes head resting on his scarred shoulder, dark hair tickling the skin of his neck above his collar.

    “This is how love is,” Watson whispered into a finely sculpted ear, running his hand over Holmes’ back in an effort to soothe.   “You have never known such feelings because you have never allowed yourself to.  And now that the floodgate has been opened, it is only natural that it feels overwhelming.  I assure you, Holmes,” he added fiercely, “the sentiment is more than shared.”

         Watson felt the other take a deep, shuddering breath before moving back a step, gazing intently into his face, as though seeking assurance.

    “You feel this way as well?” Holmes asked, his expression and next words conveying his disbelief.  “You, who have loved on three continents and been married?”

    “Yes!” Watson assured steadily, moving his hands to either side of Holmes’ neck, cupping his jaw with his thumbs as he stared  deeply into his eyes.  “Holmes, each love is different than any other.  I cared deeply for those who shared my bed with me when I was younger, and I truly loved Mary as my wife.  But the love I feel for you, have always felt for you, cannot be measured in such simple terms.  You are my dearest friend, my brother, my partner, and now my lover.  You are everything to me, Holmes.  Everything!”

    “And that terrifies me,” Holmes gasped out raggedly, reaching up to cover the hands which cupped his face with his own.  “Because I assure you, Watson, that without you… Without you there is nothing for me.  I tried, Watson.”

    Holmes’ voice broke as, finally, he allowed himself to admit a truth he had never dared acknowledge before.  Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away angrily as he forced himself to continue, wishing to get the confession done and over with, so Watson could cast his judgment upon him and the torture of keeping the secret would finally end.  

    “I ran because I loved you, and Moriarty knew.  Even before I did, he knew!  He threatened your life, and Mary’s, at that final battle, and when he was bested and I thought I could return to the pitiful existence which had become my days, Moran reared his despicable head.  It was a mercy, Watson!” Holmes spit out, the hands against his neck tightening, though the other’s gaze did not waver, and Watson gave no other outward sign of censure.  

    He shifted, slightly, widening his stance as though to brace himself against the words to come, accepting of everything Holmes was offering him.  And Holmes could not have stopped the words even if he had desired.  The steady warmth of Watson, his solid presence, gave him the courage to continue, though his heart beat so rapidly he feared it might burst with the strain.  His words were gasped out on ragged breaths, and he was clutching so hard at Watson’s wrists he knew there would be bruises later.  

    “It meant I could not return to London to see you living your life away from me, that I could pretend, on those quiet nights when I had nothing else, that you had not chosen another above me, and one day I might have you all to myself!  I ran because I - I did not -”

    He could not bear it any longer and tried to wrench himself free, eyes closed against the condemnation his friend must surely feel for him, now he knew the truth.  

    But Watson would not release his hold, dragging Holmes close once more, wrapping his arms around him and clutching him even as he struggled to get away, to hide his shame.  Only when the iron muscles beneath his hands began to relax, and Holmes sobbing breaths had slowed to shallow, hiccupping gasps, did he loosen his embrace.

    They kissed then, in the shadow of the oak with beams of sun breaking through the canopy cover and illuminating their faces in mottled shades.  They kissed until they were breathless and trembling with need and everything between them had faded.   Nothing else remained but warm skin and too many clothes.  

    “I love you,” Holmes whispered against Watson’s lips, tracing their outline with his tongue, breathing in his scent and the air which puffed against his own flesh.  “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

    It was a manta, spoken into Watson’s cheek, his neck, his ear.  Hands tangled in hair, his eyes closed against the impossible beauty of the man he loved.  

    “Shhhhh,” Watson soothed, over and over as Holmes’ frantic caresses slowly began to still, his breath evening out and the trembling in his limbs finally began to subside.  “Hush, Holmes, hush. I know,” he murmured, running his fingers over backbone, arms, shoulders still tense with confession and fear.  “I love you, you impossible man. I love you.  Hush now.”

    A gentle breeze ruffled their clothes, the leaves above their head.  Shade and light danced around them, and finally, finally, they sunk to the soft carpet of moss, Holmes’ head resting against Watson’s breast, the steady beat of his heart a more soothing lullaby than any song a mother could sing.  

    As the sun made its way across the hills, Holmes succumbed to sleep at last, safe in the arms of the only man he had ever trusted with everything he possessed.

***

    Watson watched over the slumbering man for close to an hour before he began to stir, his movements sluggish and languid as drowsy grey eyes opened to look up at him.  

    “Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling.    
      
    “Hello,” Holmes answered, his voice hoarse and filled with confusion.  “You are not -”  

    The words trailed off, as though he could not bear to utter them.

    “What?” Watson asked, stroking Holmes’ back before moving his hand to weave through the thick, black locks.  

    “Angry with me?” Holmes asked softly, the first, and only time, Watson had ever heard such a timid tone from the other.

    An immediate answer was not what the other man wanted.  Watson knew this as surely as he knew there was nothing to forgive.  Perhaps, before he had seen the toll such a secret had taken on his friend, he would have once been upset over the deception.  But there had been no malice in Holmes’ flight.  Only the survival instinct of an animal hurt beyond its endurance to struggle anymore.     
      
    “I am not mad,” Watson finally said, gently.  He leant down and placed a chaste kiss on Holmes’ brow.  “You did what you had to, to survive.”

    When Holmes opened his mouth to protest, to remind Watson that he was not referring merely to his three year absence, Watson placed a finger against his lips.  

    “You did what you had to, to survive,” he repeated, willing the other to see the understanding in his eyes.  “A heart can only be broken for so long without shattering, Holmes.  I only wish -”  Watson swallowed back his own apologies.  He would not beg pardon for loving Mary, no matter how much he longed to in that moment.  He would not dishonor his love for her, or her memory, that way.  “I only wish that circumstances had been different.”

    He waited a moment to make certain Holmes understood he meant every word he had said, smiling as the tension slowly melted from the other’s frame, leaving him limp and pliant against him.  Then he ran his hand down Holmes’ arm, entwining their fingers and moving them to his mouth to kiss them slowly, sensuously.  He lavished the digits with his tongue, watching as the other’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes going dark as his breathing grew heavy.  

    “I love you so very much, Sherlock Holmes,” Watson breathed huskily, puffs of warm air ghosting over their combined hands.  

    Holmes shivered at both the tone and the sensation, licking his lips as he watched Watson continue to suck on their combined fingers, his tongue swirling around knuckles before moving to press open mouthed kisses to his palm.  

    “I want to ravish you,” Watson continued in that same deep tone, moving slowly to reposition them so that Holmes was laying flat on his back, his head cushioned by the moss as he arched into the sensation of Watson’s roaming hand.  “I want to take you in my mouth until you’re incoherent with need, and drink of your essence.  I want you to touch me, and feel how much I desire you.”

    As he said this last Watson moved the hand still entwined with his and placed it over the front of his trousers, where Holmes could feel the stiff outline of his manhood.  When Watson untangled their fingers to allow his hand to roam over Holmes’ body, Holmes squeezed gently, feeling the turgid member twitch even through the layers of cloth.  

    “Yes,” Watson groaned, closing his eyes as delicate fingers moved, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence at Watson’s continued encouragement.  

    The doctor’s trousers were undone, his belt removed, and when his manhood was finally released it bobbed thickly in Holmes’ grasp, red with need and weeping.  

    “Just like that,” Watson hissed as fingers continued to stroke, alternating between gentle, feather light touches and harder caresses.  “Do you - oh, God, yes!  Do you want me - yes, there!  To touch you?” he asked, even as his hips moved in rhythm with Holmes’ touch.  

    “Yes,” Holmes moaned, his voice positively indecent with need, and it took a moment of scrambling between them to get his trousers open and his own member freed from the confines of his smallclothes.  

    “You’re gorgeous,” Watson gasped as he watched his hand envelop the length of his lover, sensing it would not take long for either to find release.  “Just like that, Holmes!  God, don’t stop!  Yes, yes!” he cried, fighting his own impending orgasm as he struggled to concentrate on Holmes’.  

    “Watson-” Holmes warned moments before he died his little death, his eyes closing in the pleasure/pain of it, his back arched, his hand clenching almost painfully around Watson’s own manhood as he cried out wordlessly.  

    It was not long before Watson joined him, the two men as ever in sync, even in this most intimate of ways.

***  
    They lay entwined beneath the giant oak for some time as Gladstone snuffled happily nearby, chasing moths when not rolling contentedly in the dirt.   They did not allow themselves to doze, however, and after nearly  a half hour they set themselves to rights, attempting to return their appearances to something resembling respectable.

    “Mrs. Everman should have tea prepared,” Holmes murmured as he adjusted Watson’s waistcoat, tugging it slightly to remove any wrinkles.  “We should head back.”

    “A man could get spoiled living like this,” Watson teased, gently brushing Holmes’ hair behind his ear, smiling as he removed a bit of moss from the black locks.  

    “My dear Watson, however do you think Mycroft reached such a - sturdy - appearance?” Holmes answered, his own lips turned up into one of his rare, genuine smiles.   “If Mrs. Everman had her way, I would be twice my weight and still considered skin and bones.”

    “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more decent meals,” Watson persisted, leaning in for a chaste kiss, their lips lingering for just a moment before they resolutely separated.  “Come on.  A good cup of tea sounds wonderful right about now.”

    Holmes hummed his agreement and gathered up Gladstone’s leash, taking Watson’s arm as they began the long walk back.  It was not until the house was in sight, however, that he spoke.

    “Watson,” he began, a slight hesitation to his voice.  He paused for a moment, as though uncertain if he should continue, and the reluctance was so unlike him that Watson paused, halting them both.  

    “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked gently, turning slightly so he could see the other’s expression.  

    Holmes pursed his lips, eyes downcast as a faint blush crept across his cheeks.  It was such an endearing expression Watson could not help but smile at it.

    “I would never force a confidence from you,” Holmes began, keeping his glance averted.  “But I find I am - my experience in certain matters is lacking.  And I have noticed that yours is… not.”

    “Yes,” Watson agreed, drawing the word out.  He kept his tone neutral despite his growing curiosity; Holmes so seldom admitted a lack of knowledge in any area that his insecurity must have been immense to prompt him to bring up such a delicate subject.  “You know I freely admit that I have enjoyed a great many experiences, Holmes.”

    “Some of which were men?” Holmes asked softly, and the flush which had colored his cheeks deepened.  

    “Yes,” Watson admitted, coughing slightly to ease his own discomfort.  He was not ashamed of any of his encounters, but to be discussing them with his best friend and extremely inexperienced lover was something he had never contemplated before.  “Mostly while I was in the Army, though there were a few after.”

    Holmes nodded, his lips tightening as he shifted slightly, a move that on any other would have been innocuous, but in Holmes was tantamount to wringing his hands and whimpering in distress.

    “Does that bother you, Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, moving so that he could cup his friend’s chin in his hand and force his eyes up.  “That I -”

    “No!” Holmes protested immediately, shaking his head in denial and dislodging Watson’s hold.  

    The doctor stepped back a pace, taking his cues from his friend’s body language, though his eyes remained fixed on Holmes’.   He waited, knowing it would not be long before an explanation or another question was offered.

    “I do not wish to offend you, Watson, not for the wide world,” Holmes murmured, crossing his arms loosely as he contemplated his feet.  “But I must know - that is, I would like to know - if there is something -  If you would like, or if I am not -”  He stopped, closing his eyes as his lips pressed into a firm line.  

    “Holmes,” Watson whispered in as gentle a voice as he could muster, moving forward to cup the other’s face once more, framing his cheeks with his hands.  “Are you asking me if there is something more I want from you?  If what we have done so far is not enough for me?”

    His eyes still focused on his feet, Holmes nodded, once, reluctantly.  

    Watson closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as he considered his words very carefully.  Then he leaned in and placed a tender kiss to Holmes’ forehead.

    “It does not matter to me what we do,” he said finally, his lips brushing Holmes’ skin as he spoke.  “If we do nothing more than what we have, or if we decide to explore other possibilities, I am happy so long as I am with you.”

    He bent his head, capturing Holmes’ lips with his own until he felt the other relax into the kiss, his body un-tensing slowly.   They broke apart after a moment, resting their foreheads together.  

     “You will teach me?” Holmes asked, still hesitant.

    “You have only to ask,” Watson assured him.  He waited a moment before moving away, taking Holmes’ arm in his own as he urged them once more into a slow walk.  “Now, let’s go enjoy our tea and then a nap for you.  It’s been a busy day.”

    Holmes smiled, focusing his gaze once more forward, and placed his hand over Watson’s.  

***

    Mrs. Everman did indeed have their tea waiting for their return, tutting over them as she brushed off stray bits of moss they had missed and warned them to eat at least a bit of everything.  

    They nibbled on the sweet cakes and drank their tea slowly, passing the time in companionable silence before they retired to the library.  Watson settled himself in his habitual chair  by the fire, resuming his novel of the past few days, while Holmes curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a warm monstrosity of a blanket the color of peach fuzz.

    When Mrs. Everman ducked her head around the door to announce that supper would be set shortly, both she and the doctor flinched back in surprise as Holmes darted upright, his breath suddenly ragged and his hand clutching his chest tightly.

    “Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, closing his book and standing slowly.  

    “I’m fine,” Holmes rasped, coughing deeply to clear his throat and then taking  a deep breath.  “Fine,” he repeated, waving away his friend’s worry and Mrs. Everman’s hovering presence.  

    “We’ll be in shortly,” Watson assured her softly, and she bobbed a quick acknowledgement before departing, her lips pressed into a thin line as the wrinkles around her eyes deepened.

    “Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, moving to take Holmes’ arm and pull him to his feet.  “Let’s go change for dinner, and then maybe a brandy before bed.  You look done in.”

    “I feel done in,” Holmes sighed, patting the doctor’s shoulder fondly as they headed up the stairs.  “Although, I must admit that last night was probably the best sleep I’ve had for a very, very long time,” he admitted as they entered their rooms.  He glanced shyly at Watson as they separated.  “Thank you.”

    “No thanks are needed, Holmes,” Watson assured him softly, grinning mischievously as he added., “Trust me, my friend, it was my pleasure.”

    At Holmes’ blush he laughed softly, leaning in for a chaste kiss before heading to  his own room to change.  They left the door open between them, and only when each had been properly attired did they head down to their supper.  

***  
      
    Holmes picked at his dinner that night, unable to bring himself to stomach the succulent roast and greens placed before him.  His stomach felt leaden with fatigue and the lingering remnants of the nightmare which had haunted his nap, and the food tasted off in his mouth.

    “Holmes?” Watson finally asked, eyeing the mostly full plate before him.  “What’s wrong?”

    “Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes sighed, finally giving up any pretense of eating and setting his fork down.  “I fear I don’t have very much of a stomach tonight.  No, no,” he added as Watson’s brow creased with concern and he opened his mouth to question the statement.  “I think it is merely the events of the day catching up to me.  Don’t worry, mother hen.  I’m certain a good night’s sleep will have me feeling better in the morning.”

    He smiled reassuringly, and was rewarded with a resigned grin in turn.  

    “Just, promise me you’ll let me know if you start to feel worse,” Watson urged wearily, and Holmes could read the effort to keep his worry from his tone.  “We both of us were in that water a long time yesterday, and if you are catching cold I would like to try and stop it before it becomes something worse.”

    “Of course,” Holmes agreed, and dared to reach across the table to rest his hand over the other’s, squeezing once in assurance.  “I promise, if I do not feel better tomorrow, I will not hide it from you.”

    “Thank you.”

    Holmes watched as the doctor went back to finishing his supper and sipped delicately at his wine.

    “So, tell me,” Watson prompted between one mouthful and the next, his nonchalant tone fooling neither of them, though the effort was appreciated.  “When your brother visits, does Mrs. Everman ply him with as much food as she has us?”

    “Oh, Watson,” Holmes laughed, taken by surprise.  “Who do you think got him hooked on berry tarts and puff pastries to begin with?”

***

    He did not retire to the library with Watson after dinner that night, pleading exhaustion and a slight headache as he excused himself to his room.  He could read the worry in his friend’s face, the tight lines around his eyes and the frown on his lips, but Watson had merely wished him a  restful night and squeezed his hand gently.

    The room was very quiet when he entered, only a single candle near the bed illuminating the familiar shapes and features of the furniture. He blessed Mrs. Everman’s foresight as he maneuvered his way to the bed and his nightshirt placed enticingly upon the turned down sheets.  He could not help the blush when he realized that a second nightshirt rested beneath the first, and when curiosity got the better of him and he poked his head into Watson’s room, he could only shake his head in wonderment.

    The doctor’s room had been tidied, but there was no sign that anyone was expected to sleep there.  The bed was as neatly made as it had been that morning, and there was no sign of Watson’s valise which held his toiletries.  

    “Crafty old woman,” Holmes murmured fondly as he turned back, making his way through the shadows to the water pitcher and basin near the bed to take care of his own ablutions.  When he spotted Watson’s bag nestled beside the dresser, he could only shake his head and smile.  

    When he curled up under the blankets a few minutes later, dressed in his nightshirt and teeth brushed, he allowed the candle to continue to burn, knowing Watson would be joining him before long and not wanting his lover to stumble about in the dark.

    His lover.

    The thought tripped and stumbled through his brain, leaving only a confusing mix of longing, self doubt, and wonder in its path.  It was an extraordinary amalgamation of feelings, and as he pulled the blankets tighter about his chin, he could only try to work his way through the dizzying labyrinth they created.

    Watson loved him; he had said so earlier that day, quite passionately, and had also expressed no desire to push Holmes further in their physical intimacies than he was prepared for.  This only made sense, as Holmes knew the doctor to be a man above all others in matters of patience and empathy.  

    But what was Holmes prepared for?  How far did he wish to go with this newfound desire?  Never before had he longed for another’s touch, and even now, despite the lingering ache in his head from the emotions the day had brought about, he could feel his member stiffen at the thought of Watson’s fingers upon his body.  

    “Damnit,” he cursed, curling his legs closer to his chest as he tucked his elbows against his ribs, one hand resting just beneath his chin.  

    Truly, he thought to himself in annoyance. If this was the way most people felt around someone they cared for, it was no wonder they made stupid, careless decisions.  After all, he was one of the most brilliant men in all of England, possibly all of Europe, and here he was, fighting the urge to take himself in hand at the mere thought of another’s fingers around him.

    “No,” he breathed, eyes staring vacantly at the wall opposite the bed as he considered.  He did not want just anyone to touch him.  Only Watson.  

    It had always been thus, he realized slowly, pursing his lips as he followed the  thought.  Ever since their initial meeting so many years ago, he had always allowed Watson freedoms of his person that no one, save perhaps Mycroft, had ever been permitted.    
      
    Touches to his body as injuries were treated, friendly pats on the shoulder or the knee in comfort, long strolls arm in arm.  The countless nights they had been forced to huddle together while hiding in pursuit of criminals, or the beds they shared when traveling away from London.  It had never once crossed Holmes’ mind to put a distance between them, to push Watson away from his physical sense as he had with nearly everyone else.  

    The Turkish baths!  

    Just the thought of their once platonic outings had Holmes curling a hand about himself in wonder, his eyes closing as he savored images of Watson from years past as they lay wrapped in towels after enjoying the ministrations of the bath attendants.  

    It was no wonder Moriarty had realized his feelings for the other man.  The only true wonder was that he had been so blind to them himself all this time!  Or perhaps not blind, he admitted as his thoughts continued to unravel.  

    When Watson had informed Holmes of his upcoming marriage, the feeling had been all too similar to being punched in the gut by one of his boxing opponents. The subsequent days of watching his best friend, nay, his only friend, prepare to leave him had been agonizing.  He had not been able to admit it to himself then, but he knew now, looking back, that he had been just as lovesick and heart wounded as any young man seeing his love choose another.

    The thought was bitter, even after four years distance.  That Watson had chosen a woman, no matter how lovely and gentle, over Holmes, still had the power to burn, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as he forced himself to analyze his feelings and his actions as they had played out.  

    He had been hurt, yes. He had felt betrayed and had taken it out on Watson in small, petty revenges.  Not answering his correspondence, neglecting to turn to him if he was injured, using the cocaine whenever he felt the urge, regardless of whether or not his friend was supposed to visit that day.  

    All actions that had, in the end, been meaningless, for Watson had remained as unaware of Holmes’ feelings for him as Holmes himself.  And when that final confrontation with Moriarty had forced him to acknowledge certain truths…

    Holmes had run.

    His stomach twisted again, his desire vanished as he forced himself to continue the thought.  Self deception, as he had seen time after time, aided no one, and would only lead to misunderstandings and hurt in the future.  For Watson’s sake, and the sake of their friendship, he needed to follow his chain of thoughts to the end.

    He forced his tensed body to relax, the hand which now cradled his flaccid member moving to rest beside the other under his chin, and he closed his eyes as he remembered.

    He had run, away from Moran and those who chased him, away from London and the life he had built for himself.  Away from Watson, living happily with his wife in a life that held little place for Holmes save for what the doctor allowed him. Away from the thought that his friend would start a family, would forget him, would move on in a way Holmes never could.  

    Away from the pain of knowing he could never have the only person he had ever loved.  

    He had fled, and only when news of Mary’s death had reached him had he returned.  Not with the hope of achieving what they had found the past few days, he had not dared to even think such a thing.  But with the desire to be with his friend again, to have him by his side, in his home, to have the two of them together as they had been for so long and should have remained if not for Watson falling in love and moving away!

    “Stop it,” Holmes growled, flipping himself onto his other side and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to calm his suddenly racing heart.  

    Mary was dead.  She had been Watson’s love, and his friend had been forced to watch her die, slowly and painfully.  It was not something he would wish on his worst enemy, the remains of which had never been found.   His Watson had suffered greatly, and the past was the past.  

    He sighed, deliberately blowing the air from his lungs forcefully before taking a deep, slow breath.  The knot in his stomach eased slightly, and he was able to put his thoughts back on track once more.  

    He wanted Watson.  Physically, he had never felt such a longing, his flesh yearning for the other’s touch to an almost painful degree.  Now that he had experienced the exquisite torture his friend could wring from him, he found himself wanting more.  

    More touches, more kisses, more of things he did not even know how to name. He wanted everything Watson could give him, and, more astonishing to his mind, he wanted to give everything as well.

    He loved Watson.  

    The thought burned away the doubts and confusion, the lingering bitterness and hurt.  It was all consuming, until he felt positively flushed with it.  He wanted to give Watson everything he was, everything he had.  He wanted the other to know exactly how much he meant to him, and there was only one thing he could think of which would convey this.  

    The thought was more calming than any tonic Watson may have given him, his mind finally at peace now that he had reached his conclusion.  Sleepily, he allowed his body to relax further into the bed, the pillow cradling his head gently as his thoughts began to blur.  

    He would give himself to Watson, everything he was.  He may not know all the mechanics of it, but he trusted Watson would.  And, as it had a thousand times before, the knowledge that he could place his  body and his heart in Watson’s hands was enough to let him drift off to sleep.

    When Watson joined him in the bed nearly an hour later he did not wake, but turned in his sleep to nuzzle close to the other’s warmth.  Strong arms enfolded him, kept him safe, and there were no dreams that night.  

***

    They woke wrapped around each other the next morning, sunshine streaming in through the window at a nearly painful angle as it dispelled any lingering thoughts towards sleep.  

    “Morning,” Watson rasped huskily, kissing Holmes close mouthed on the lips as he stirred.  

    “Hrm,” Holmes replied, returning the kiss lazily before burying his head in the other’s shoulder.  “Early,” he groaned.

    “No it’s not,” Watson laughed, caressing dark curls with his hand as he rubbed his nose lightly against Holmes‘ temple.  “In fact, it’s probably close to ten.”

    “Umph,” Holmes grumbled, stirring enough to insinuate a leg between Watson’s thighs.  

    He smiled into Watson’s shoulder at the hardness he found there, moving his leg mischievously as Watson drew in a quick, sharp breath.

    “Holmes,” he murmured, hips flexing unconsciously into the pressure.  

    “Yes?” Holmes asked, placing a kiss to Watson’s throat, allowing his tongue to linger over the stubbled flesh.  

    “You are a bad influence,” Watson rasped.  

    Holmes laughed into his neck as he proceeded to show his friend just what a horrible influence he was.  Watson did not protest.

***

    When they managed to climb out of the bed, loose limbed and relaxed in a way neither had been for some time, it took them longer than was their custom to attend to their washing up and dressing.  They shared the basin, taking turns brushing teeth and shaving, their ablutions interrupted by gentle kisses and lingering touches.  

    “How do you feel this morning?” Watson asked as he refilled the porcelain bowl with fresh water, wetting a flannel before wiping his arms, chest and abdomen down.    
      
    “Better,” Holmes assured, following the other’s example and treating himself to a quick bath.  He smiled when he caught sight of the small bruise on the side of his neck in the mirror, still a reddish-blue.  “I only have a small headache,” he added reluctantly.  

    It was not something he would normally divulge, as the pain was marginal and he doubted it would have any bearing on his activities of the day.  But he had promised Watson, and himself, to be honest about his condition, and  tedious though it may be, he was determined to do so.  

    Watson’s expression, fond and a little awed at the admission, was quickly hidden under the guise of putting his valise back to rights.  

    “If you want something for it, let me know,” was all he said, and when he turned back his countenance was once more under his control.  “Shall we go eat?  I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”

    “Well,” Holmes conceded as he held out his arm for the other to take.  “We did work up a bit of an appetite!”  
      
    ***

    Breakfast was a lazy affair, with Mrs. Everman bustling around as usual and smiling fondly at them when she thought they weren’t looking.  Watson could not help the blushes that appeared each time he caught her at it, but Holmes’ amused expression was worth the small embarrassment.  

    “Will you boys be needing anything else?” the elderly housekeeper asked once the plates had all been filled to her standards.  

    “No, thank you, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes replied, grinning up at her.  “I must say, this spring air does agree with you.  You look positively glowing!”

    Watson raised his eyebrows at the unexpected compliment, but she just smiled and patted Holmes’ shoulder in a motherly fashion.

    “Thank you, dear.  The same could be said for yourself,” she replied cheekily.  Watson felt his cheeks heat up, but Holmes merely smiled wider.  “And no, you may not skip out on lunch.  You’re skin and bones and your brother would have my hide if he thought I wasn’t taking care of you,” she added, her tone completely no-nonsense even as she added another kipper to Holmes’ plate.  “Now eat up, the both of you.  The lads have been a bit fidgety lately, and they may have a match later on, if you’d be interested.”

    “Match?” Watson asked, ignoring Holmes’ snort of derision as he nevertheless began to eat.  

    “Oh, the boys do like a bit of rugby,” Mrs. Everman explained.  She rested a hand absently on Holmes’ shoulder, who didn’t seem to notice, or mind, the familiar gesture.  “The young masters don’t care too much for it, but I thought that maybe you might like to have a go, Doctor.”

    “I haven’t played rugby in years!” Watson exclaimed happily, the prospect of a good match sending a thrill down his spine.  “I would be delighted to play!”

    “Watson -” Holmes began, and then stopped, clamping his lips closed on whatever he had been about to say.  His eyes, however, could not hide their sudden concern, and Watson grinned at him reassuringly.  It was not often Holmes censured himself to spare another’s feelings.

    “I’ll be fine, old boy.  A bit of rugby won’t bother my leg any more than running after some ne’er-do-well.  Besides, it’s only a bit of fun, right, Mrs. Everman?”

    “Just so, Doctor,” she agreed, smoothing Holmes’ pomaded hair over one ear as she did so.  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Holmes.  My William is a fair referee, and doesn’t let no harm come to the boys other than what is normal in the course of the game.”

    Holmes’ eyes widened at this, not the least reassured as Mrs. Everman took her leave, tutting at one of the servant girls in the hall for “leaving the floor to mop itself.”

    “Honestly, Holmes, I’ll be fine.  Besides, you’ve never been to a rugby match.  It will be a learning experience,” Watson teased, patting his friend’s hand before going back to his meal, grinning at the sudden turn of events.  
      
    Holmes watched him eat for a moment before resignedly returning his attention to his no longer appealing plate.  

    “Whatever you say, mother hen,” he sighed.

***

    The weather was the warmest it had been that spring, with the sun shining brightly and not a cloud in sight.  

    “Wonderful weather!” Mrs. Everman crowed as she set down blankets and arranged a picnic basket to her liking.  “You just sit down here, Mr. Holmes.  We can have a lovely view and won’t be in the way.  You’ve never been to a match before, so you’ll be in for a right treat!”

    Holmes’ only reply was to sigh deeply and do as instructed, sitting down cross-legged as he watched the group of men, Watson among them, huddle together on the other side of the wide field around Mrs. Everman’s husband.  Years before, when such things had held interest for his grandparents, the open space had been used for polo.  Now, however, it was mostly decorative field where deer grazed.

    There were twenty six men, Holmes noticed absently, watching the group as they conferred on something or other.   Servants, Mrs. Everman’s sons, and if he was not mistaken, a few of the neighboring servants as well.  He could not imagine the last time the estate had seen so many people gathered together at one time.  

    It was unnatural and set his teeth on edge.

    “How long does a game usually last?” he asked, almost plaintively, and was answered by a gentle pat to his hand.  

    “Don’t you worry, dear.  Once the game starts, trust me, you’ll not be paying attention to the time,” she answered, chuckling.

    “Mrs. Everman, you know me,” Holmes sighed, looking away from the gathered group, who were making a lot of noise by yelling and hollering, supposedly in preparation for the start of the match.  “I am a boxer and a fencer.  Such organized games as these have never held interest for me, nor do I think they will start now.”

    “Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, grinning cheekily over at him as she shifted and settled less than gracefully on the blankets.  “You’ve never had your doctor to keep your interest before.”

    “Mrs. Everman!”

    Holmes buried his face in his hand, flushing at her boldness.  He had long since given up having any dignity where she was concerned, however.  She had, after all, changed his nappies and nursed him through more sickness than he cared to recall.  The class boundaries which should have divided them had worn very thin over the years, and she was more a doting aunt to him now than merely a housekeeper.

    “Oh, hush, you,” she teased, patting his hand.  “Trust an old woman, dear. The rules and plays won’t matter a wit once they start.  You just keep your eyes on your lovely man and enjoy.”

    “Lord,” Holmes breathed, feeling his blush creep down to his neck.  

    “Here they go!” she shouted excitedly, bringing his head up as the men divided themselves into two teams.  

    Though no uniforms were worn, the men were differentiated by the colors of their shirts.  Watson’s team wore black, while the opposite wore red.  Holmes wondered briefly where Watson had got the shirt, but the first clash of bodies was violent enough that he started, and all other concerns were quickly lost.

    “Don’t you worry now,” Mrs. Everman soothed, reading his expression as easily as she would any of her sons‘.  “He’ll be fine.  You just enjoy the view, and follow your doctor.”

    Holmes found himself wishing he had never agreed to be a spectator, and for a moment he wondered if this was how Watson had often felt, watching him from the sidelines of the boxing ring.  Only, he realized as another clash of bodies had him wincing, Watson had always seemed to enjoy watching him box, and if the violence of the game was anything to go by, it was no wonder he had not been put off by a bit of blood after a match.

    The game continued, though he had no desire to learn the rules and Mrs. Everman was silent beside him when not cheering.  He kept his attention focused on Watson, who seemed to be grinning fiercely in between the moments of frantic movement.  

    Holmes was no innocent when it came to violence, though he preferred to limit his own activities to the pursuit of criminals and the boxing ring.  Rugby, as he was quickly learning, was a sport based off quick runs and powerful collisions.  Time after time he watched as the players fought over the ball, running and grappling until they were all dripping with sweat and mud.  

    He doubted he had ever seen Watson so happy save for the times he was helping Holmes capture some despot.  

    A touch to his arm startled him, and he jerked away from the intrusion of his personal space.  For a moment he stared at Mrs. Everman with wide, anxious eyes before ducking his head in embarrassment.

    “Sorry,” he murmured, flinching again as yelling erupted from the field, his gaze only darting quickly over the group of men shouting to ascertain Watson’s welfare before turning back to the woman beside him.

    She regarded him solemnly for a moment with too knowing eyes before she cleared her throat and determinedly turned her attention away, staring intently across the field.    
      
    “He’s a good player, your doctor,” she finally said, watching as the two teams separated once more, the altercation straightened out and devolving into good hearted cat calls and jeers.  “Not afraid to get dirty or rough himself up a bit.”

    “Yes, I noticed,” Holmes agreed.  He coughed into his hand, forcing himself to return his attention to the game, to watch his friend enjoying himself and be glad for him.  “He used to play for University, and a bit while he was in the Army.”

    “Hmmmm,” was the only answer he received for several minutes, another flurry of movement and running following more cheers and whooping.  “His leg will be playing bloody buggers tomorrow, that’s for certain,” she finally said.

    Holmes could not help the laugh that escaped, staring at the elderly woman in amused shock as she blinked over at him innocently.  

    “Teddy’s the same way,” she added, pointing a crooked finger towards one of the mud-covered men in red.  “Tore his leg up in a fight a few years ago, hasn’t been able to hobble about without a stick since.  But mention the word rugby…”  She laughed softly, shaking her head.  

    “They all seem very…enthusiastic,” Holmes allowed, grimacing as one player was flipped bodily over another.  To his relief, Watson was well away from the tackle.  

    “Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, casting another look  his way.  “There’s something to be said about a man covered in mud and sweat at the end of the day.  Getting filthy is easy enough, but getting clean?  That’s the fun part.”

    She cackled at Holmes’ horrified expression, patting his leg soothingly.  

    “Oh, go on, dear,” she soothed, still laughing.  “Any fool can see how in love you are with him.  Nothing wrong with love, no matter what the bloody laws say.  In my day, it didn’t matter a wit who you warmed your bed with, so long as you were careful.”

    Blood rushed to his face until he was certain it would surely drip out his gaping mouth, and for one of the few times in his life he found himself utterly speechless.

    “The game’s almost over now,” Mrs. Everman said calmly, as though she had not just completely shocked one of the masters of the estate.  “I’ll get myself off and make sure there’s a bath waiting for your man when he drags himself away and starts to feel his years.”

    She paused after gaining her feet, turning a look so fond and understanding towards Holmes that he had to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat.  

    “It’s good to have you back, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, bending to press a kiss to the top of his head.  “Now you eat the sandwich I prepared for you and the apple in that basket.  The game may be near finished, but they’ll be lollygagging about for a bit.  Once they’ve calmed, you bring your man into the house and force him into that bath, otherwise his leg will be no good to him tomorrow.  I’ll have another herbal for him tonight, after supper.”

    Instructions given, she turned and made her way steadily back to the house, her small, stout frame swaying gently as she did so, a General on her way to prepare for an upcoming skirmish.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Feeling as though he had only just come out the other side of a small force of nature, Holmes set about following her instructions, digging into the basket to retrieve his lunch as he watched the game finish, both teams yelling and screaming until he wondered that any of them would have a voice left by the end of it.  

    Only when the men had calmed down sufficiently to shake hands and start to depart did he stand, waiting patiently for Watson to make his way over to him, grinning fit to split his face as blood slowly trickled down his cheek from a cut above his left eye.

    It was a strange role reversal to Holmes, and not one he thought he would ever like to repeat.

***  
    They made their way back to the house, Watson dripping sweat, mud and blood the entire way, chatting happily about various points of the game, seemingly unaware that Holmes didn’t understand a word.  

    He was energetic, filled with an enthusiasm that Holmes had not seen in his friend in far too long, and a sudden fierce guilt seized him.  

    Watson was a social person, someone who thrived on being around others and participating in various activities.  He had his club which he frequented, associates whom he shared tea and lunches with, and couples who had been friends to him and his wife.  

    And Holmes had dragged him back into a life of solitary pursuits, spending his evenings with a man who could happily remain barricaded in his room for weeks and not feel the least bit of longing for another’s companionship.  

    So long as he had his Watson    there to keep him company.  

    “You’re awfully quiet, old boy,” Watson said suddenly, startling Holmes out of his thoughts as they reached the steps to the house.  

    They were going in through the garden, so as not to track mud in and leave more of a mess than could be helped.  Holmes held the door open for Watson as he motioned him in, following him as he contemplated a response.

    “Are you all right?” Watson asked, the sudden worry creasing his brow a sharp contrast to his sheer exhilaration just moments before.  

    “Fine, mother hen,” Holmes answered immediately, managing a smile as he gently pushed Watson towards the stairs.  “Just listening to you talk.”

    At Watson’s skeptical frown, Holmes elaborated.  “I have no idea what you were talking about, of course, but it was nice to listen to nonetheless.”

    Watson’s laugh was deep and surprised, and he was smiling again as he ascended the steps.

    “I shan’t bore you anymore, then,” he said, looking over his shoulder to grin.  “Although I must say I’m rather baffled you managed to last the entire game without figuring out the rules.”

    “I wasn’t watching the game,” Holmes said, and bumped into Watson’s back as he stopped, turning around with his mouth open to question the statement and unconcealed hurt in his eyes.  “I was watching you.”

    The words died on Watson’s lips unspoken, his expression softening as he studied Holmes’ face, his lips turning up fondly.  

    “In that case, I shall forgive you,” he said softly, pausing a moment more to place a quick kiss to the other’s  forehead before turning back around and resuming his walk up the steps.  “Still, perhaps next time you may wish to pay a bit more attention to the actual rules.  I don’t suppose it was very entertaining just watching me running around.”

    Holmes bit his tongue on the automatic response attempting to escape, pursing his lips as he struggled to find a diplomatic answer to the statement.  It was, after all, not his strong point.

    “No offense, Watson, but I don’t really think rugby’s my sport,” he settled on saying, keeping his expression neutral as Watson cast an inquisitive look over his shoulder.

    “Really?” he asked, surprised.  “I would have thought it to be the type of sport you thrived on.  You can’t imagine how surprised I was to learn you had never attended a match in your life.  Perhaps the next time we can go see a true team play,” he added cheerily, smiling at the thought.

    Holmes forced his lips to turn up, though his shoulders tensed and his stomach clenched at the thought of having to sit through another few hours of such torture.  

    “We’ll see, old boy,” he said.

    He could not remember a time when he was so grateful to reach his rooms, and firmly pushed Watson toward the tub which had been filled with steaming water that smelled faintly medicinal.  

    “Not to belabor the point, Watson, but you truly are a horrific sight.  Please waste no time stripping out of those disgusting clothes,” Holmes declared, already starting to help with the removal of the dirty garments.  

    As the shirt and trousers were removed, Holmes found himself cataloguing the damage, fighting to keep his expression neutral as Watson’s small clothes were peeled off and his lover stood before him, half hard and covered in mud and sweat.  Bruises were starting to form on Watson’s ribs and arms, and a spectacular welt had been raised along his back.  His thighs had not been spared, either, and it was only with a supreme effort that Holmes managed to keep from betraying the growing horror he felt at the evidence of his friend’s enthusiasm.  

    “You’ll be stiff as a board tomorrow,” was all he said, softly, running gentle, probing fingers over the worst of the bruises.  

    He froze as Watson’s hands closed over his, stilling their movements.

    “Holmes?” Watson asked, trying to meet his eyes.  

    “You look like you’ve gone nine rounds with a hulking brute,” Holmes observed.  He cleared his throat, finally looking up to smile reassuringly at his friend.  “I suggest you get in that water while it’s still hot.”

    “What’s wrong?” Watson asked, not moving or releasing the other’s hands.  “It’s just a few bruises, Holmes.  You’ve seen worse after a round of fisticuffs.  Hell, you’ve had worse after a match!”

    “Yes, I know,” Holmes assured, still smiling.  “Which is why I suggest getting into the water.  Your leg won’t be any good if you don’t rest it a bit now.”

    He tried to pull away, but Watson’s grip was like an iron clamp, firm around his wrists.

    “That smile may fool everyone else, but I know you,” Watson said softly.  

    He knew what his appearance looked like.  He had been through enough matches in his time to realize how much of a mess he must be.  The cut above his eye had finally stopped bleeding, though he could feel a trail of dried blood down his cheek to  his neck, and his eye was beginning to swell slightly.  He was filthy, covered in mud that was starting to dry and itch, and he could smell the sweat on himself, heavy and slightly pungent.  

    He wasn’t going to allow his friend to escape, however, no matter his own discomfort.

    “What’s wrong, Holmes?  You’re upset, I can tell,” he coaxed.  

    Huffing in exasperation, and, admittedly, a bit of annoyance at the doctor’s persistence, Holmes started to move forward, using his captured hands to push Watson toward the bath.  

    “You need to get cleaned up and into something decent.  Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but really, Watson, you’re simply  cov -”

    “Holmes!”

    It was a tone only used when Watson was truly annoyed with him, one Holmes secretly thought of as his military voice.  It always sent a shiver down his back, even as it warned him to tread very carefully.

    He did not stop pushing, however, until Watson’s legs bumped against the hot metal of the tub.  Then he looked up through his lashes and asked, very softly, “Will you please get in, Watson?  I cannot bear to see you like this.”

    It was a shameless play on Watson’s empathy and caring nature, though nonetheless true.  The sight of his lover, bruised, bloody and dirty, was causing his insides to squirm and clench, and he feared his bowels might betray him if he did  not get control of himself.  He could already feel mild cramps starting.

    “Please?” he asked again.

    After a moment’s contemplation Watson nodded, slowly, and released the other’s hands.  Then he turned and climbed somewhat clumsily into the water, stiffness already starting to set into his muscles.  

    “Now that that’s accomplished, talk,” he ordered, picking up the flannel which had been placed conveniently on the side of the tub and looking around the floor for the soap.   “You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s upset you so.”

    Holmes rolled his eyes as he sat carelessly, legs crossed and elbow propped on his knee, chin in hand.  He kept away from the muddy mess of clothing and handed Watson the soap, waiting until a good lather had been worked up on the flannel and it was being rubbed over the doctor’s arms and chest.  

    “I did not like the game,” Holmes finally murmured, his eyes set on watching the movement of the flannel, skin slowly becoming pink again under the doctor’s ministrations.  

    The tub had been placed near the bed, far enough that any splashes would not endanger the linen, but close enough that Holmes could have sat on it and spoken normally if he chose.  He did not, however, wish to put more distance between them, and so remained seated.  He felt ashamed at his admission, especially after seeing how much enjoyment Watson derived from the sport.  

    “Go on,” Watson prompted, after the silence stretched between them.  It was not uncomfortable, but neither was it normal for Holmes to leave a thought unfinished.  

    “You know I do not shy away from violence,” Holmes continued softly, continuing to watch Watson lather his body.  “But seeing you out there -  I am used to sports where there is only one opponent, who can be analyzed for weaknesses and overcome with a bit of effort.  The thought of you surrounded by others - of putting yourself in danger - it does not sit well with me.”  

    He paused, moving to take the soggy flannel from suddenly limp hands, not daring to meet Watson’s gaze as he dipped the cloth back into the now murky water to rinse off the soap Watson had missed.  

    The doctor’s chest, covered in fine, sparse hairs, was dotted with beads of moisture, his pectorals sharply defined and his stomach flat and muscular as Holmes worked the cloth down the toned body.  

    “I realized, though,” he continued, subdued, moving back up to gently wipe down a strong forearm to the slim wrist, carefully washing between each finger.  “That you love the game, and you have not been this happy in some time.  So I will not tell you I do not want you to play another match should the chance arrive.  Nor will I tell you to be careful, because I did watch you, and know you are not foolish or careless.  But I will say that I do not like to watch you put yourself through such rigors, and ask that you please do not ask me to watch you do so again.”  He paused, resting the flannel on Watson’s shoulder, finally looking up into eyes so blue he wondered how he had ever thought a clear sky colorful.  “Please, Watson,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly.  "I'm not like you, old boy.  I can't - seeing you out there, with all those - I just can't bear to watch it again."

    Watson finally moved, cupping Holmes’ cheek with his hand, moving slowly so as not to slosh the water and kissing him gently, close mouthed and chaste, on the lips.  Then he sat back and regarded Holmes solemnly.

    "Now you understand how the boxing makes me feel sometimes? When the match doesn't go quite all your way and you end up getting hurt?"

    It was not an answer to Holmes’ question, though he supposed he had not worded it as such.  So he nodded mutely, casting his mind back to all the times Watson had cared for broken ribs or sutured cuts, and winced slightly as he recalled the worried frowns and brief admonishments.    
      
    "Do you want me to stop?" he asked hesitantly, doubting that was truly what Watson wanted, but needing to offer the suggestion.

    "No.  But I would like you to be a bit more careful.” Now it was Watson’s turn to sigh, smiling ruefully as Holmes resumed his ministrations with the washing, moving the cloth slowly.  “It can be damnably hard sometimes to watch you get trounced, Holmes.  Thankfully, it’s a rare enough occurrence I don’t have to think about it too often.”

    Holmes returned his smile, feeling the tension drain out of him, exhaustion taking its place.  His stomach began to settle, and he found himself better able to appreciate his situation.

    “I must admit, even if I did not care for the rest of the game, you were a sight to behold,” he admitted, letting his gaze wander purposely.  The water was too murky to make out any details below his stomach, but Watson had been half hard when he had entered the bath, and Holmes knew well the effects of adrenaline.  He allowed his hand to drift below the surface, heart quickening as Watson’s eyes darkened and he arched as fingers carefully closed around his slowly hardening manhood.  

    “Oh, really?” Watson asked huskily, his lips quirking in what could only be called a predatory smile.  

    “Yes,” Holmes breathed, and dropped the flannel in favor of running his other hand along Watson’s shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, this one much less chaste.  “A very, very stunning sight to behold.”

    Watson captured his lips in a messy, open mouthed kiss, his tongue dancing with Holmes’ as wet hands gripped still clothed arms.  

    “You need to get undressed,” Watson growled against his mouth before kissing him again, already moving to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt, never breaking contact as he did so.  

    Holmes groaned as wandering hands traveled over newly exposed flesh, leaving trails of wetness which had his opened shirt clinging to his skin.  With his attention diverted between kissing Watson and trying to remove his clothes, it was some time before he was actually naked, still kneeling beside the tub, Watson humming contentedly against his mouth.  

    “Now I think you should join me,” Watson suggested, finally moving back enough for Holmes to regard him with dilated eyes and flushed cheeks.  

    “That water is disgusting,” Holmes protested softly, though there was no bite to his words, and Watson merely pressed himself against the back of the tub in order to make room for him.  

    Frowning, eyeing the water dubiously, Holmes ran his hand over Watson’s shoulder, down to his left nipple, where he twisted the nub gently, earning a loud groan for his effort.  

    “Holmes.  Water. Now,” Watson gasped, voice filled with a desperate need that would have been frightening in its intensity if Holmes hadn’t been feeling a similar demand.  

    His manhood was fully erect, and when he slipped into the tub of water still hot enough to turn flesh pink he hissed at the sensation.  He found himself straddling Watson’s thighs, their members pressed together and hidden beneath the water as Watson claimed his mouth in another passionate kiss, hands running over Holmes’ back and scraping his nails over the flesh of his shoulders.  

    Holmes arched into the touch, gasping for air as he rested his head against Watson’s shoulder, his heart racing as he moved his hips in short thrusts, rubbing their bodies together.  

    The water eased any friction, making them slippery and allowing their members to slide without resistance in the creases of their hips.  He could already feel his release building, his back tingling, and when he moaned, low and hoarse into Watson’s mouth, he was met with an equally loud response.

    “That’s it, God, Holmes, yes, just like that,” Watson urged, closing his eyes as he threw his head back, careless of the water he was dripping onto the carpet or that was being splashed over the side of the tub.  He thrust his hips in time with Holmes’, hands moving down to clutch at the other’s backside, gripping tightly and kneading the muscular globes.  Their breaths were coming in harsh, short pants, need overwhelming them as they moved.  

    Daring, he allowed a finger to rest against Holmes’ entrance, pushing gently but not breaching him.  He was met with no resistance and, in fact, could feel Holmes’ shudder as he slowly applied pressure.  Gently, he worked the digit inside the tight passage, the water easing the way until his finger was completely inside.  Internal muscles clenched tightly around him, sending desire so strong to his aching manhood his breath caught in his throat and he could feel his body straining for completion.

    “Yes,” Holmes hissed, drawing the word out as he pushed his hips back, seeking more of the strange fullness inside him, stiffening as his release washed over him, stilling his movements as emotions and sensations overwhelmed him.  

    Watson ran his free hand through Holmes’ hair, wet strands clumping together  as he gentled his lover through the rest of his little death.  Only when Holmes was panting heavily into his neck, forehead and wet hair brushing his chin, did he ease his finger out,  wrapping the hand around his straining erection and stroking himself to his own release.

    His climax took with it the last of his excited energy from the game and left only a calm, peaceful lassitude that deadened his limbs and had him sinking deeper into the tub.

    “I think,” Holmes panted, moving his head enough to kiss the hollow in Watson’s neck, “that a nap would be in order.”

    Watson laughed breathlessly, still cradling the back of Holmes’ head against his chest, closing his eyes as he allowed his own to loll lazily against the rim.  

    “Excellent idea, old cock.”

***

    They curled comfortably on Holmes’ bed, dressed in their underclothes and nothing else as they wrapped around each other, Watson’s head on Holmes’ chest with Holmes’ arms firmly around him, their legs tangled and toes brushing.  The blankets surrounded them in a warm cocoon, and it was only several hours later, at a hesitant knock on the door, that they woke, the last vestiges of the sun painting the room shades of pink and purple.  

    Hesitant to leave the comfort of the bed, Holmes disentangled himself reluctantly and pulled on his dressing grown, stumbling to the door.  When he opened it only far enough to see out, he was greeted by a small, brown-haired maid who smiled up at him.  

    “Mrs. Everman says supper will be ready in another hour, and you and the doctor should come downstairs so’s we can drain the tub and put the room to rights,” she whispered, as though hesitant to disturb the other occupant of the room.  

    “Thank you, Clara,” Holmes murmured, smiling despite his embarrassment at the implication of the words.  “You may tell Mrs. Everman we’ll be down in a quarter hour.”

    “Yes, sir,” she agreed, and hastily curtseyed before he could close the door.   

    Holmes smiled fondly after her, remembering how only five years previous she had been a homeless flower seller, hawking her wares on the corners of Baker Street and whichever location Holmes had directed her to.  She had been, of course, one of his little Irregulars, and an invaluable source of information.

    “Holmes?” Watson called sleepily, his head poking up above the covers to stare blurrily over at him.  “Who was that?  Is anything - oh, bloody hell!”

    This last was gasped as he fell back, groaning as the exertions of the day finally caught up to him.

    “Mrs. Everman has requested that we come down a bit early, so that the tub may be drained and the room put back to rights,” Holmes explained, smiling as he made his way over to the bed and the head of red-tinged blond.  He had to laugh at the way the strands stuck up in random directions, a look far more appropriate to his own untended hair than to Watson’s.  “I suggest you get up and start to move a bit, you’ll be stiff as a plank if you don’t.”

    “Yes, yes,” Watson groaned, still making no move to do so.  “Just give me a moment while I get over the agonizing pain!”

    “As you wish.  However, I don’t advise being in here when the servants come to make the bed.  It may make things a bit awkward.”

    Watson groaned again, far more dramatically, and pushed himself into a sitting position to scowl at his lover.  

    “You,” he snapped, throwing the blankets aside with an irritated motion, “are an annoying bastard.”

    “Yes, but I’m your annoying bastard, and you love me,” Holmes replied easily, smirking as he bent down to kiss Watson on the lips firmly.  “Besides, knowing Mrs. Everman, she probably has a poultice waiting for you.”

    “Oh, Lord, I need it,” Watson agreed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and hissing.  The majority of the bruises were hidden by his smallclothes, but Holmes remembered very well the purpling shades that had colored Watson’s ribs.  

    “After dinner I’ll rub some liniment into your bruises,” he promised, offering Watson a hand to help him to his feet.  He winced in sympathy at Watson’s grimace and indrawn breath.  

    “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, slightly worried he may have overlooked a cracked or broken rib in his earlier examinations.  

    “No, no I’ll be fine.  I’m just not as young as I used to be and, good God, rugby is a young man’s game!” he swore fervently, though his grin was just as fierce as it had been that morning on learning about the match.  “ I doubt I’ll be doing this again any time soon.”

    Holmes wisely refrained from comment and instead provided Watson a shoulder to lean on until he could retrieve his cane, limping heavily as he dressed and put himself back to rights.  

    Holmes, keeping nearby in case of a stumble, smiled fondly as the doctor cursed on seeing his hair.  

    “I’m not the only one who needs to dress,” he reminded Holmes pointedly, not looking away from the mirror as he ran his brush through his hair and pomaded the wild mess.  “And if you think my hair is a sight, wait until you see your own.”

    Holmes’ grin widened.  

***

    Mrs. Everman did indeed have a poultice waiting, a towel which smelled strongly of herbs and had been set by the fire in the library to keep warm.  Watson accepted it gratefully as he sank down into his customary chair, allowing his head to fall back and his eyes to close as he groaned in appreciation.  

    Holmes watched him in amusement as he took his own habitual seat on the settee, legs curled up under him as he watched Watson blindly place the towel over his thigh.  

    The doctor’s left eye had swollen to a dark blue around the outside edge, though his vision did not seem to be at all impaired and the cut had been shallow.  It was already scabbed over, needing no further tending than a quick rinse with clean water to remove any lingering traces of blood.  

    “I must admit, old boy, I rather like having our situations reversed for once,” Holmes teased, smiling fondly as Watson scowled without opening his eyes.  “Perhaps you should play a few more matches.”

    “Now you’re just being vindictive,” Watson sighed, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position.  “Can’t you tell I’m in unbearable pain?”

    “Oh, yes,” Holmes agreed in false sympathy, his voice practically dripping with it.  “You poor, poor thing.  However shall I tend to you, in your hour of suffering?”

    “Hush,” Watson groaned, finally opening his eyes to glare.  “The least you could do is pour me a brandy.”

    “That I can do,” Holmes agreed, laughing silently as he uncurled from his relaxed sprawl and set about doing as instructed, pouring a generous glass for himself, as well.  “Here you go, my dear.”

    Watson accepted the drink eagerly, smiling his thanks as he took an appreciative sip.  

    “Mr. Holmes?”  Clara peeked her head around the door, reluctant to intrude on the men’s sanctuary but obviously having been sent with a message.  Holmes motioned her in and Watson peered at her curiously, as though trying to remember where he had seen her before.  “Mrs. Everman would like you to know that we’re settling the doctor’s things into your room, and that it should be all set by the time dinner is finished,” she reported faithfully.

    Out of the corner of his eye Holmes could see Watson turning a dark shade of red, though the other man fought valiantly to hide his embarrassment.    Clara, however, with an eye trained under Holmes’ tutelage and the demands of the street, noticed as well and covered her mouth as she giggled.

    “It’s all right, Doctor,” she soothed, smiling cheekily as she turned her attention his way.  “We all knew you and Mr. Holmes fancied each other.  No offense, but we always did think you a bit balmy for leaving him as you did.”

    “Clara, enough,” Holmes cautioned, shooing her out of the room as she bobbed her head in a quick curtsey, still grinning, and left, leaving an open mouthed Watson behind and his friend smiling indulgently.  

    “What -” Watson finally managed to gasp out, looking from the door to Holmes and back again.  

    “Surely you remember Clara the flower seller?” Holmes asked, still smiling as he took a sip of his brandy and settled himself back into the cushions of the settee.  

    “Little Clara?” Watson asked, once more turning his attention back to the open door, as though expecting to see the maid appear again.  “The one who broke her wrist trying to fight off that man who stole her basket?”

    “The one and the same,” Holmes grinned, enjoying the other’s expression of dismay.  “Truly, Watson, you can’t imagine there is much money to be made in selling flowers, can you?”

    “Well, no, but -” Watson stuttered, obviously trying to come to terms with his friend’s magnanimity.  “I just hadn’t realized you had given her a position.”

    “Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Everman came into the room, looking more harried than usual, her tight bun escaping in wisps of grey hair around her plump cheeks.  “Your brother just sent a telegram!  He’s to be joining you by the end of the week, and bringing three of the boys with him.  Goodness, this will be the first time you’ve both been home in ages!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in her excitement.  

    “Three boys for what?” Watson asked curiously, smiling despite his confusion at the woman’s obvious glee.  

    “Why, for training, Doctor!” Mrs. Everman explained, as though the answer should have been obvious.  At his continued confusion, she turned her eyes to Holmes, as though expecting an answer from him.  

    Holmes stared deeply into his brandy, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.

    “He never told you?” she asked, turning back to Watson with a look of mixed horror and disbelief.

    “Told me what?” Watson demanded, looking over to Holmes as well.  “Holmes, what have you not told me this time?”

    “It’s nothing, Watson,” Holmes sniffed, taking a large drink from his glass.  “Mrs. Everman is easily excited.”

    “Oh, stop you!” she scolded, making a swatting motion with her hand.  “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I can’t believe you never told him!”

    “Told me what?” Watson snapped, his patience finally starting to wear thin.  

    “Why, that when his children get too old for the streets, Mr. Holmes has them sent to us for training and placement of proper jobs!” she explained, keeping a glare firmly on the man in question.  “My boys and girls train them up proper like and then help them settle in their new positions.  They’re such hard workers, bless them, everyone wants to hire them.  Why, we already have several inquiries.  Mr. Hampshire will be so excited to learn he’s finally going to be able to fill his stableboy position!”

    “Mrs. Everman -” Holmes protested, finally returning her glare with one of his own.  “Please.”

    “No, do go on,” Watson insisted, motioning for Holmes to be silent.  “I had no idea.”

    “There really isn’t anything to say, Watson,” Holmes muttered, not letting up on his glare until Mrs. Everman let out a put upon sigh and left, patting Watson’s shoulder in sympathy as she did so and calling over her shoulder, “Dinner will be set in a half hour!”

    “Truly, Holmes,” Watson observed, admiration suffusing his words.  “Why did you never tell me you did such a thing for your little army?”

    “It wasn’t important,” Holmes grumbled, finishing off his brandy and standing to replace the glass on the sideboard.  At his questioning glance Watson held up his still half full glass and shook his head, though he did not abandon his questioning.

    “How many Irregulars have you found positions for?”

    Realizing he wouldn’t be able to drop the subject until Watson’s curiosity had been satisfied, Holmes threw himself back into his seat and scowled at the ceiling.  

    “All of them,” he said, not letting Watson get another question in before adding, “Since I first started using their services in, oh, 1878 or so.  Young Dominic Grandige.  My brother had an associate who needed a young lad to work in his smithy, and Dominic was quite capable of it. Mycroft arranged for his training and it’s been rather a tradition ever since.”

    For several minutes the only sound in the room was the fire crackling and Watson’s finishing off his brandy.  

    “Until the day I die I think you shall always continue to amaze me,” Watson said fondly.  He twirled the empty glass between his fingers, gazing so adoringly at Holmes that the other man began to blush under his attention.

    “I’m not a hero, Watson,” Holmes protested, curling his legs tighter under him.  

    “To them you are,” was Watson’s only reply.    
***

    Dinner passed quietly, and shortly after finishing their cigars in the library, they both agreed to call it an early night.  Despite the hour and their nap from previous, both men were exhausted from the day’s activities, and it was with an unspoken relief that they climbed the stairs to their room, another of Mrs. Everman’s poultices in hand to ease the ache of Watson’s thigh which had only increased as the night wore on.  

    Both men blushed when they entered the room to find two nightshirts placed enticingly on the bed, the covers turned down and a fire burning steadily.  It was a cozy, welcoming atmosphere, and Holmes wondered briefly if Baker Street would be quite so welcoming when they returned.

    He hastily pushed such thoughts aside as he changed and brushed his teeth, ridding his mouth of the lingering taste of cigar and brandy.  Beside him, Watson did likewise, the two of them sharing the basin easily, finishing their grooming and falling into bed eagerly to curl around each other.  

    “Did you want me to rub that liniment into your muscles?  You’ll be a bit better off tomorrow if I do,” Holmes asked, absently running a hand over Watson’s ribs, his finger unerringly finding the bruises through the cloth of his nightshirt and ghosting over them.  

    “Yes, I suppose you should,” Watson agreed.

    He only moaned quietly when Holmes gently applied the strong smelling cream, taking care to make sure every inch of skin which sported a discoloration was covered.  When he was done, the small jar placed back in Watson’s bag, the two of them settled comfortably and extinguished the candles by the bed.  

    They kissed slowly, lazily, for some time, though there was no ardor behind the kisses.  Hands only wandered so far as to caress a shoulder or twine their fingers, and it seemed that between one kiss and the other, they both were asleep.

    It was not a restful night for Holmes, however.  Despite the day’s activities, or perhaps because of them, his dreams were dark, filled with the sounds of screaming and bodies colliding.   When he woke, sweating and shivering in the middle of the night, his gut twisting unpleasantly and his hands clenched tightly under his chin, he found himself nearly gasping for breath as he forced his mind away from the unpleasant experience.  Instead, he tried to focus on Watson’s deep, even breathing beside him.

    He gazed wearily at his friend’s face, so close he could count the eyelashes if he chose.  He concentrated on the smooth contours of his cheeks, the way his mouth was slightly parted, the delicate flesh of eyelids.  

    When his heart had stopped racing quite so frantically, Holmes slowly disentangled himself from the bed and made his way blindly to the facility.  He thanked God with a fervor he rarely employed that Mycroft had had the foresight to update the plumbing in recent years as he spent nearly a quarter hour huddled and shivering in the dark room, cursing his body and his weakness.  

    Once the episode had passed he made his way back to the bedroom, pausing briefly to wipe tepid water over his face to eliminate the sweat from his nightmare and stomach trouble, then climbed back into the bed.  His limbs felt leaden, and although he did not relish the thought of attempting to sleep again, he was too exhausted to fight its pull.

    “All right?” Watson asked drowsily beside him as he started to drift off.  “You were gone for a while.”

    “Summer complaint,” Holmes mumbled, too sleep muddled to lie.  “Fine now.  Sleep.”

    He felt a delicate touch at his brow and did not try to resist, instead letting himself fall, if not gratefully, then resignedly, into the sleep that beckoned.    
      
    There were no more dreams.  

***  
    When morning came, Watson was the first to rouse.  Weak sunlight entered the room grudgingly, casting shadows over the furniture and signaling an approaching rainstorm.  Beside him, brow creased slightly even in sleep, Holmes curled around his pillow, legs drawn close to his body as though he were cold.  Watson drew the blanket closer about his lover, making certain it was snug under his chin.  Then he lay back and regarded the other man fondly.  

    Thick black hair fanned the pale face in wild tangles, and Watson delicately tucked a strand behind the shell of a perfect ear.  Beneath his fingers Holmes twitched, a hand jerking absently in sleep to swipe at the touch.

    Watson smiled fondly at the movement and took pity, remembering his lover’s long absence in the middle of the night and his confession of sickness.  It was not an uncommon affliction, though the doctor knew his friend found the whole business distasteful and even shameful.  Such a weakness of the body that could not be controlled or marshaled was a personal affront to the detective, and Watson doubted that Holmes would take kindly to the knowledge that such bouts would probably plague him for a while.  

    Deciding to let his friend sleep, he slowly untangled himself from his blankets and set about his morning ablutions, wincing at his own pains and aches.  His leg throbbed gently in time with his heart, and his muscles resented the workout they had received the day before, but overall he felt he had managed to escape lightly.

      He shaved quietly and washed his face, poking absently at his now thoroughly blackened eye, then dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, abstaining from collar and cuffs until it was nearer time for breakfast.  

    Retrieving his writing journal and pen from his bag, he settled himself comfortably at the desk near the window, the dim light forcing him to turn up the gas slightly.  When Holmes showed no sign of consciousness, Watson turned his full attention to setting down yet another of Holmes’ adventures.  

    It was an exercise he had not enjoyed in quite some time, and soon was lost in fond memories and the attempt to capture Holmes’ brilliance for the world to enjoy.

***

    The sound of a pen scratching was at once familiar and comforting.  It penetrated his sleep and brought him back to the world slowly.  For a long while he lay, happily content in the warm blankets and the peaceful room, listening to Watson scribble down his romantic fantasies.  

    He moved his legs slightly, easing into a more relaxed position, and felt his body protest.  His stomach, still aching hollowly from the night before, was a distant annoyance, as was the throbbing in his head.   He ignored them, concentrating instead on the blanket pulled up to his chin, the soft pillow beneath his head, and the sheets so well woven it was like sleeping on a bed of moss.  

    He hummed contentedly to himself, still more asleep than awake, and shifted again simply to revel in the luxury of being so comfortable.  The scribbling stopped, followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back and then a loud, deep groan.

    Holmes couldn’t  help himself and started to laugh, a snickering chortle that he tried to stifle as he turned his face into the pillow.  Another ill concealed moan of discomfort as Watson pulled himself to a standing position had Holmes clutching his stomach.

    “Forgot yourself, did you?” he gasped out between chuckles, finally opening his eyes to blink lazily up at his lover, who stood leaning heavily against the back of the chair, glaring at him.

    The look should have been intimidating. It was one of Watson’s finer efforts, and normally he would have accepted the other man’s irritation and backed off.  The sight of him, though, eye blackened roguishly, weight resting against the furniture as his muscles protested the previous day’s abuse, set him off again, and he found himself wheezing for breath as merriment overtook  him.

    “Stop, stop,” he managed, wrapping his arms around his middle.  “Don’t make me laugh!”

    “This is what I get for trying to immortalize your exploits!” Watson mock growled.  He could not hide his twitching lips, however, or the way his eyes were squinting against the urge to laugh, himself.  “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, it’s not that funny!”

    “Yes, yes it is!” Holmes protested, finally managing to bring in a deep breath, wincing as his own muscles protested.  “Oh, Watson, if you could only see yourself.  Such a dashing fellow, saving the chair from being swept away by an errant gust of wind!”

    “That’s it!” Watson swore, limping over to the bed and throwing himself on top of it, beating Holmes soundly with the nearest pillow at hand.  

    By the time they managed to settle down the bed was a mess of twisted blankets, lumpy pillows, and the two men who lay tangled together, legs wrapped around each other and heads resting close.  

    “Feeling better?” Holmes asked, running a hand slowly up Watson’s side, gently smoothing over bruised ribs and abused muscles.  

    “Yes, actually,” Watson chuckled, caressing Holmes’ cheek.  “How about you?  I was a bit worried last night, you were gone for so long.”

    Holmes snorted, rolling his eyes at the question.  “I was gone barely fifteen minutes, mother hen.  It was just an attack of the summer complaint and I’m feeling much better.”

    “It was twenty-six minutes, and you were pale as a ghost and shaking when you came back,” Watson admonished, moving his hand from Holmes’ cheek to his forehead.  “I woke when you left the bed and checked the time, and then again when you came back.  Do you know what set it off?  Were you feeling sick yesterday?  You didn’t mention anything, but then again, you rarely ever do.”

    Holmes scowled as Watson’s tone turned clinical, the doctor’s eyes inspecting his face as he felt for fever.  

    “Must you be so - so medical?” Holmes asked plaintively, moving his head away from the cool hand pressed against his brow.  “Whatever happened to the romance?  The mystery?  Aren’t you even going to try to woo me anymore?”

    Watson laughed at the shameless play on his affections and leaned closer to press a kiss to the tip of Holmes’ nose.  

    “I thought you were the one who wanted the romance and mystery to be left out in favor of keeping to the facts and the facts alone,” he replied, grinning unrepentantly at Holmes’ scowl.  It was not often he could throw the detective’s words back at him, and he was enjoying the exchange greatly.  

    “I may have to amend my opinion on that,” Holmes muttered mutinously.  “Faced with your implacable medical inclinations!”  This last was said accusingly, as though Watson’s medical concerns were something he found distasteful.  

    “How about a compromise?” Watson asked, pushing himself up on his elbows so he could lean over Holmes, their faces nearly touching and his breath ghosting over Holmes’ cheek as he spoke.  “I will woo you,” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss to Holmes’ lips.  “And give you plenty of romance.”  Another kiss followed, this one deeper and more passionate.  “And you will be honest and upfront with me about your condition.”    
      
    Holmes returned the kisses just as passionately, his lips curling into a smile as Watson eased himself back down to rest his head once more next to Holmes’, grinning in return.

    “You have become much more cunning and underhanded over the years, Watson,” Holmes whispered, closing the distance between them for another kiss, this one gentle and lazy.  

    “Is that a yes?” Watson asked, lips still pressed to Holmes’.

    Holmes snickered, moving back slightly to look into his friend’s eyes without crossing his own, grinning in fond exasperation.  “That is an… I will try.”

    “Good,” Watson murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him once more.  “Now, do you feel ready to get up?  I think breakfast should be almost done, and we may wish to make an appearance.”

    “Yes, I think I can do that,” Holmes agreed, bestowing one last kiss before he pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing slightly as his stomach protested.  “Though perhaps I should refrain from eating for a bit.”

    “Still a bit touchy?” Watson asked sympathetically, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand.  

    “A bit,” Holmes sighed, his hand splayed over his stomach as he pushed away from the bed.  “I’ll be a few minutes in the facility, I fear.”

    Watson watched him go, frowning slightly despite the earlier levity.  He doubted Holmes would appreciate his concern, though, and so instead turned his attention to finishing getting dressed.  

    When Holmes rejoined him a few minutes later he looked a bit paler than normal, though his smile was genuine and he touched Watson’s shoulder briefly as he passed him to reach the basin for his own ablutions.  

    “All right?” Watson couldn’t help asking, and received a put upon sigh for his efforts.

    “I’m fine, mother hen,” Holmes assured him, washing his face and chest with a damp flannel before discarding his nightshirt to quickly wash the rest of his body.  

    Watson leaned back against the dresser to watch in open appreciation, smiling at Holmes’ raised eyebrow.  Though the two of them had been to the Turkish baths several times, this was the first time Watson had ever been allowed to stare openly in appreciation, and he found himself grinning from pure delight as Holmes finished.  

    He said nothing, however, as his friend continued to dress, and instead set about putting his writings away and helping Holmes do up his cuffs.  With a quick press of lips, the two of them set off for breakfast, shoulders brushing as they made their way downstairs.    
      
***

    The heavens opened up shortly after they sat down, the rain lashing the windows of the dinning room loudly, the room dark enough that the gas had to be turned up so they could see their meals.  

    Mrs. Everman tutted over Holmes’ lack of appetite and Watson‘s black eye, but seeing Watson’s slight shake of the head, didn’t comment other than to offer them both more juice.  When breakfast was finished, the two men retired once more to the library, since the weather made it inadvisable to do anything out of doors.  

    They settled down before the fire, hot tea and biscuits laid out for them, and spent the better part of the morning reading and idly chatting about whatever caught their fancy.  They made plans for their return to Baker Street, operas and plays they wished to attend, and the possibility of Holmes resuming cases.  

    “We’ll see,” was all Watson would concede to, earning a pout from the detective.  

    Near midday lunch was announced, and once more they retired to the dining room, though Holmes barely touched his food and winced at the bright light from the lamps.  

    “Headache?” Watson asked softly, watching as Holmes listlessly moved his roast chicken about his plate with his fork, nibbling a bite every now and then but grimacing as he did so.  

    “Yes,” Holmes admitted grudgingly, giving up on any pretense of eating and pushing his plate away from him.  “I fear it may be one of my bad ones, old boy.  If you don’t mind, I think I may go lie down for a while.”

    “Would you like something to help?” Watson asked cautiously, trying not to wince at the hurt look which flashed in Holmes’ eyes before he turned his head.

    “No,” he answered shortly, pushing himself away from the table and standing wearily.  “I promised, Watson,” he said softly, looking into his friend’s eyes only long enough for his seriousness to be marked.  

    “I know,” Watson soothed, laying his own meal aside as he stood and made his way around the table to place a comforting hand on Holmes’ shoulder.  “But I know your headaches, Holmes, and if you should need help, you have only to ask.  There’s no shame in taking something when it’s warranted.”

    Holmes hung his head a moment, as though the weight of it was too much for him, and then nodded.  He squeezed Watson’s hand before removing it from his shoulder and making his way out of the room towards the stairs.  Watson watched him go worriedly, hesitating before returning to his meal.  He knew his friend would not wish him to hover, and determined he would wait a half hour before making an attempt to check on him.

    When Mrs. Everman came into the room ten minutes later, she cast Watson a worried look at Holmes’ absence.

    “He has a bit of  a headache, Mrs. Everman,” he assured her, pouring himself another cup of tea as he lingered over his own half-finished meal.  

    “Oh, dear,” she sighed, shaking her head as she started to clear Holmes’ side of the table.  “The poor thing always did suffer them, even as a child.  I doubt he’ll be wanting anything for the rest of the day.”

    “No, I don’t think he will,” Watson agreed.  “Does Mycroft suffer such afflictions?  Holmes hasn’t mentioned anything, but I’ve noticed that such conditions tend to run in families.”

    Now that he had the chance to ask the housekeeper about his friend’s past and family, Watson found himself struggling not to overstep his bounds.  If he kept the questions medical, he assuaged his conscience, it wasn’t truly a breach of his friend’s privacy.  

    “Not nearly to the extent of Mr. Sherlock, but yes, he does,” Mrs. Everman sighed.  She paused, hands filled with plates and empty bowls.  “Their mother suffered from them as well, God rest her,” she added, turning to leave.  “If you need anything, just ring and one of the lasses will see to it,” she called.  

    Watson digested the new information, wondering what other ailments ran in his friend’s family, before deciding he had left Holmes alone long enough.  He finished his tea and made his way back upstairs, entering their room quietly.  

    The bed was empty, the lights turned off to spare Holmes’ head, and for a moment he wondered where his friend had got to.  Then the sound of retching reached his ears, and he made his way quickly to the closed door of the facility.

    The knob turned easily in his hand, and he was thankful he had not been locked out when he entered the small room to find Holmes knelt before the toilet, coughing piteously into the bowl.

    “All right, old boy,” he whispered softly, moving to place a gentle hand on Holmes’ back, resting it gently to see if it would be accepted.  He knew from experience that sometimes the headaches would make the other man over sensitized to any form of contact, but Holmes seemed to welcome his presence and did not make any move to escape the touch.  

    For several minutes Watson sat beside him, rubbing a soothing circle on his back as he struggled to bring up whatever was in his stomach, spitting bile and looking pale and wan in the shadows.  When the fit finally seemed to have passed, Watson allowed him to rest with his head against he cool porcelain as he retrieved one of the flannels by the basin in the bedroom, wetting it thoroughly and then bringing it into the bathroom to lay it across the back of Holmes’ neck.

    “Do you think you can make it to the bed?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, and at Holmes tentative nod, helped him to his feet.  “Just keep your eyes closed, I’ll guide you.”

    Holmes’ face was devoid of color as he stepped into the slightly more illuminated bedroom, lines about his eyes and across his forehead signaling his pain level.  Watson slid an arm around his waist and placed the other under his elbow, guiding him to the bed and helping him settle.  He placed the damp cloth over his eyes as he pulled the blanket up to his chin, keeping his movements slow to decrease any noise he might make.   Holmes had already removed his waistcoat, collar and cuffs, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, so he had no fear for his friend’s ease of movement.  

    Once Holmes was as comfortable as he could make him, Watson retrieved a rubbish bin from beside the writing desk and placed it by the bed.  

    “If you feel sick again, the bin is on the floor,” he whispered.  At Holmes nod, he continued.  “Would you like something for the pain?”

    Holmes hesitated, which was answer enough as far as Watson was concerned, and he moved to retrieve his medical bag.  He prepared the syringe quickly, and within only a few moments had injected the morphine into his friend’s arm, watching as the lines of pain slowly started to fade.  

    “Get some rest.  If you need me, I’ll be in the other room reading.”

    Holmes nodded again, one hand worming its way out of the blanket to grope blindly for Watson’s.  The doctor squeezed it gently before placing it back under the covers, kissing Holmes’ cheek tenderly before retrieving a book from his valise and making his way to the adjoining room.    
      
    He settled comfortably on the bed, turned the gas up a bit so he didn’t strain his eyes, and turned his attention to his book.  He kept his ears open, however, for any indication that his lover was in distress, and did not relax fully until he checked on Holmes some forty-five minutes later to find him deeply asleep.

***

    The headache had come on him suddenly during lunch, with little warning save for the halo which had seemed to outline everything about him.  In all honesty, he had found the effect on Watson rather endearing, even as he knew what it preceded.   The few bites he had managed to eat had settled heavily in his stomach until he was certain he could not force another morsel down his throat, and had never been so thankful for Watson’s understanding as he retreated to the quiet and dark of the bedroom.

    When the nausea had grown too much he had stumbled, half blinded by the flashing lights before his eyes, into the water closet, and had spent a miserable ten minutes hovered over the toilette before Watson found him.  When he had been placed back in the bed, the warm hands of his friend guiding him and keeping him safe, bringing with them the blessed relief of morphine, he had known the worst of the ordeal was over.

    Sleep had overtaken him easily with the lessening of the pain, and when he blinked his eyes open cautiously, he could not tell how much time had passed.  His head still ached slightly, a warning of further pain to come if he was not careful, and so when he sat up, gingerly, the covers pooling in his lap, he did not hurry to find out how much of the day had been lost.  

    It was completely dark outside, rain still lashing ferociously against the windows, but a sliver of light could be made out from behind the nearly closed door of the bedroom which had been Watson’s.   He swung his legs carefully off the bed, the carpet keeping any chill from his feet, and stood, wobbling slightly as he fought to find his balance.  

    He made his way unsteadily to the door, not daring to open it as he called out, hesitantly, “Watson?”

    There was the sound of rustling, papers being hastily set aside, (Watson had been writing again)  before the light suddenly dimmed and Holmes opened the door.  

    Watson was standing by the writing desk, having just dimmed the lamp there, and was looking at Holmes with a clinical eye as he made his way into the room.

    “How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his moderated voice the only pleasant reminder of all the other times Holmes had been so afflicted.  

    “Better,” Holmes assured, managing to smile as he made his way fully into the room, sitting heavily on the rumpled bed.   “Have you been up here all day?”

    “Mostly,” was the easy answer as Watson sat beside him, dipping the mattress slightly as he closed his fingers around Holmes’ wrist gently.  “You were quite sick earlier and I wanted to make certain I was near should you need me again.  I’m glad the morphine worked,” he added, moving his hand from Holmes’ wrist to lay gently across the still pale forehead.  “You look done in, old boy.  Head still tender, I take it?”

    “Yes,” Holmes admitted with a put upon sigh.

    The headaches were one of the few ailments he had sought Watson’s help for in the past.  Even after he had married and moved out, a simple telegram had always brought him back quickly to tend to his friend, for both men knew how helpless the detective became under the crushing pain.  

    The first time, some four months after they had begun living together, Watson had been confused as to why Holmes had not simply self administered the morphine, knowing full well he had access to it and was not otherwise averse to using it in the doctor’s presence.  It was only after the grudging explanation that Holmes could not see properly to administer the dosage that Watson had realized exactly how debilitating the headaches were, and had taken the responsibility more seriously than almost any other Holmes asked of him.  

    Now, with so many years behind them, they fell easily into the habits they had established, Holmes allowing Watson to check him over quickly before accepting whatever judgment the doctor pronounced.

    “I think the worst has past,” Watson finally murmured.  “I would like you to drink some water, if you feel able to keep it down, and then to try and get some more rest.  You look positively worn, Holmes,” he added, smiling gently.  

    “All this fresh air,” Holmes sniffed, his own lips turning up at the teasing.  “And what of you?  I have no idea of the time, but you don’t look set to turn in yet.”

    “It’s just gone seven, and I’ll be heading down to dinner shortly.  I was just finishing writing up the last bit of that adventure with the pig and the poisoned corn.  I doubt I’ll ever send it in to print, but it does bring a smile to my face when I think on it.”

    Holmes laughed softly, his hand going automatically to his temple as he did so, but he waved away Watson’s concern as he said, “That was, indeed, an exercise in futility.  One of the few cases where no one was to blame save mother nature and simple human misunderstanding.  I’d appreciate you leaving out the part where I fell face first into the mud,” he added.

    Both men smiled fondly at the memory, though at the time the detective had been as upset as a wet cat, and had sputtered and cursed the entire way home.  

    “But Holmes,” Watson laughed, unable to control his mirth, “that was the climax of the whole case!”

    Holmes shoved playfully at Watson’s arm, earning another chuckle, and ducked his head in remembered chagrin.  

    “Well, write what you will, but just remember who it was that pushed me down in that mud to begin with,” he relented, earning another laugh and a good natured pat to his thigh in silent apology.  

    “The story is nearly done, anyway,” Watson sighed, his contentment at the accomplishment apparent in his relaxed bearing.  “It was actually a marvelous day to write, I must say.  Do you feel up to dinner, or would you like to lay down some more?”

    The abrupt change in subject came as no surprise, and Holmes merely shook his head as he said, “Neither.  I am not so tired now, but dinner holds no appeal to me.  I would, however, like a bath.”

    “That can be arranged,” Watson agreed.

    He stood, waited until Holmes joined him, and then led him back into their bedroom, turning the lamps on to a dim glow as he did so.  He deposited the other man gently but firmly back on the bed before ringing for one of the servants.  Holmes watched him appreciatively when the summons was answered by a young maid and the bath was ordered to be sent up, feeling himself blush at the remembrance of the previous day’s activities.  

    Watson, when he turned from closing the door, smiled at Holmes’ expression and made his way back to the bed, leaning down and kissing him chastely on the lips.  

    “None of that tonight,” he murmured when he pulled away, smiling mischievously.  “Not until that headache is gone and I’ve had a bit more time to recover from the game.  Goodness, I feel like an old man today!” he exclaimed, stretching carefully and wincing.  

    “Well, you certainly don’t look it,” Holmes assured him, and felt his blush deepen as he took in Watson’s lithe form, dressed comfortably in shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat.  

    “Later,” Watson reminded him, but did lean down for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate, but still ended quickly.  “I prefer to have you whole and well when we make love again.”

    Holmes found himself smiling shyly at that, unable to control the reaction as he thought once more what he would like their next session to involve.  There would be time, he reminded himself, and felt something settle and relax inside him, some tension that he had not been aware of.  A spark of humor turned his grin into something closer to a leer as he pondered what Watson’s reaction to his suggestion would be.  

    “I don’t know if I should be amused or alarmed by that expression,” Watson said as he started to button his waistcoat, preparing to head down to his dinner.  “You look like the cat who got the cream.”

    Holmes’ smile broadened, and at Watson’s rolled eyes, could not help the laugh that escaped.  Once more his hand went to his temple, and the doctor’s expression turned more serious.

    “Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he asked solicitously, moving about the room as he retrieved collar and cuffs.    
      
    “I’m all right, mother hen,” Holmes assured him.  “You know how these blasted headaches linger after the fact.  Once I have my bath I’ll rest a bit more, and maybe join you for a cigar in the library.”

    “We’ll see how you feel,” Watson cautioned, straightening his collar and departing briefly for the other room, returning a moment later with his jacket in hand.    
“I don’t want you moving about too much, you know how that can sometimes bring the full headache back.  I may just retire early and forego the brandy and cigar myself tonight.”

    “You don’t -” Holmes began to protest.

    Watson’s hand over his mouth stopped him, and he licked the offending appendage in rebuke.  Watson scowled and quickly removed his hand, shaking it out reproachfully and giving it a distasteful stare before turning his frown on Holmes.

    “You,” he said, bending down to kiss the other man’s forehead.  “Are impossible.  I’m heading down now, and I’ll see you after dinner.  Enjoy your bath, and if you need anything -”

    “Yes, yes, yes!” Holmes grumbled, easing himself back onto the bed and swinging his feet up onto the disarrayed covers.  “I have only to ring and you, Mrs. Everman, and the rest of the bloody household will be at my beck and call.  Go!” he ordered, pointing imperiously to the door.  “Your dinner will be getting cold.”

    “Doubtful,” Watson scoffed, though he grinned at Holmes’ ill humor and started toward the door.  “Take it easy!” was his parting order.

    Holmes continued to stare at the door for a few minutes after he had left before laying back down completely, closing his eyes as he waited for his bath to be brought in.    
It wouldn’t hurt, after all, to rest for just a bit.  

***  
      
    The hot water eased the tension from his shoulders and neck.  Steam wafted around his face, damp and thick in the warm room, and as he breathed it in he could feel the last of his pain slowly start to dissipate.  

    He closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the rim of the tub, sinking down until the water lapped at his chin while his knees, bent to accommodate the confines of the bathtub, jutted out of the water.  

    There had been a hot spring in France, nearly two years after his flight had begun.  He had been incapacitated for three days by the pain in his head, the morphine he had taken doing little to ease the endless agony.  The child he had enlisted for aid in procuring food and shelter had lead him, half blind and wincing at every step and sound, to the spring hidden within the forest his family lived near.  

    The water had been nearly hot enough to burn, his skin instantly turning red when he submerged himself, and the metallic tang in the air had at once filled his mouth and lingered on his tongue.  

    After fifteen minutes he had begun to grow faint, and so had levered himself out of the small basin the water bubbled from and laid down, completely defenseless, amongst the leaves and moss.  It had been late April, and in some parts of the town piles of snow still lingered.  But as he had breathed steadily of the rich earth and mineral laden air, his breath puffing before him in misty clouds, he had felt only comfort as his body slowly cooled.  

    The pain in his head had lessened to a more manageable level when his helper had returned for him, and he was able to make his way back to his hidden burrow and administer another dose of the morphine with the child’s aid.  He had slept for two days after that, and when he woke, his headache had departed.  

    He had spent three months in that village earning a living as a musician for the local theater before he had had to flee again.  But he had never forgotten that spring, or the somewhat miraculous power it had held in reducing his headache.  

    He breathed deep, partly expecting to smell once more that metallic, almost sulfurous tang, and was started back to awareness of his surroundings when only the hint of copper from the tub met his nose.  

    He blinked his eyes owlishly, gazing about the room in bemusement and thankful Watson had not been there to notice his lapse.  He sat up a bit straighter in order to prevent another such slip, and stayed submerged in the water until it began to cool.  When he pulled himself from the comfort of the tub, drying himself off mechanically, he found himself smiling.

    He had not thought of that hot spring for a while, and he wondered almost absently if Watson might be interested in it, and if he could perhaps persuade him to join him in a journey back there.  

    The thought stilled his hands, the towel forgotten as he gazed blindly at the bed.  He had never contemplated any of the places he had stayed in the past three years as anything more than temporary refuge.   The fact that he was able to do so now, safely removed from the dangers which had hunted him by time and distance, seemed significant somehow.  

    Perhaps Watson and his brother had been correct after all, and this retreat was more beneficial than he had thought.  After he donned his nightshirt and summoned the servants to remove the bath he contemplated the odd limbo his life had fallen into.  He watched as the giant tub was slowly drained and then taken away, barely sparing the servants a glance as he settled once more comfortably into the bed, covers pulled up to his chin.  

    His eyes closed of their own volition, his body exhausted from the pain and lethargy of the headache, and he found himself drifting.  

    Maybe, he thought, as sleep pulled at his heavy limbs, he was starting to heal after all.  

***

    He woke briefly when Watson entered the room, watching him through sleep hooded eyes as he went about removing his clothes and dressing for bed, turning the gas down until the room was completely dark and silent.  

    When he slipped under the covers, feet slightly chilled, Holmes wrapped his arm around him, drawing him close as he inhaled the scent of tobacco and the soap Watson used.  

    “All right?” Watson murmured, shifting them both into more comfortable positions.

    “Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, mouthing at Watson’s neck, nearly asleep again.  

    His friend chuckled, long fingers carding through thick hair easing him back into sleep, and that night there were no dreams, only the impression that he was safe and warm and loved.

***

    The next morning dawned grey and overcast, though the rain and wind had died down to allow the men a proper walk.  Gladstone, having been restricted in his activities the past two days, ran ahead of them, sniffing happily at the moist plants and grass, scurrying after bugs and getting thoroughly filthy.  

    Holmes had eaten heartily that morning, a fact  he could tell Watson was grateful for as they had both tucked into their food hungrily.  He had woken thankfully pain free, his headache only a memory and his stomach returned to its normal state.  He had even smiled as Mrs. Everman filled his plate up and ordered him to eat every bite.  He had not succeeded, but had given it his best try.

    Now, with the weak spring sun warming them despite the abundance of clouds, the two men roamed freely, enjoying each other’s company and holding hands, knowing none were around to observe them.  

    The silence was comfortable between them, each content to allow their thoughts free reign.  They followed the path they had traveled the first day on horseback, and when they reached the pond they paused.  They looked at the green water, the pond’s bottom mud churned up with the recent rain, and neither man could prevent their thoughts from going back to that afternoon not so long ago, when their world had changed.  

    Holmes turned to regard his friend, his profile strong and familiar, and moved.  He pushed Watson gently backwards until he rested against the nearest tree, the doctor’s eyes amused and trusting.  When Holmes kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, he enjoyed every moment of it, and kissed back just as enthusiastically, until both were out of breath.  

    “Holmes,” Watson breathed against his mouth, his eyes dark with sudden longing.  “What do you want?”

    Holmes swallowed, eyes closed as he slowly unbuttoned Watson’s trousers in reply, reaching into his small clothes to remove his manhood and stroke it very gently with  his long, delicate fingers.

    “You,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing him again, tongue tasting and exploring greedily before he slowly pulled back.  He watched as Watson blinked, cheeks flushed, and slowly sank to his knees.  “You in my mouth,” he elaborated.

    Watson’s eyes widened, though he made no move to protest, and Holmes smiled as he finally allowed himself to explore the new territory before him.  His lips closed carefully around his lover’s member, the salty tang of his essence only increasing Holmes’ own desire.  He closed his eyes as he concentrated, trying to remember what Watson had done to him that had sent sparks through his head.  

    He was rewarded by Watson’s deep moan, a shudder running through the doctor’s frame and a muttered curse as Holmes took him deeper, his hand still wrapped around the base of his flesh.  He did not know how long he knelt there, his knees thoroughly soaked, before an insistent tugging on his hair alerted him to Watson’s imminent release.  He did not pull  away, but continued to move tongue and fingers until the thick, milky fluid filled his mouth.  He drank it down, swallowing around Watson’s member until it began to grow soft, and only then did he release him.

    “Good Lord, Holmes,” Watson panted, pulling him back to his feet to kiss him passionately, tasting himself from Holmes’ mouth, his hands cupping Holmes’ face tenderly.  After a moment he asked, shakily, “Shall I reciprocate?”

    “Y-Yes,” Holmes whispered, his own desire suddenly flaring until it was almost painful, his trousers suddenly too tight.  

    When Watson released him and sank to his own knees, favoring his bad leg, Holmes found he could not keep his eyes open, and braced his arms against the rough bark of the tree which had supported his lover only a moment before.  

    He cried out as warm lips wrapped around him, and it took an embarrassingly short time before his own release overcame him.  His knees shook with the force of it, and Watson’s hands about his waist steadied him easily as he slowly came back to himself.  

    “By God,” Holmes gasped, finally opening his eyes in time to watch Watson gently tuck him away, doing up his buttons expertly.  “This was my favorite spot as a child, but I think I love it even more now!”

    Watson laughed in surprise, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet to wrap his arms around Holmes and kiss him again.  

    “I think it may be mine as well,” he murmured before stealing Holmes’ breath away again.  

    It was some time before either man felt able to begin the long walk back, and when they did so, hand in hand, faces flushed and lips swollen and red, it was with matching grins of happiness.

***

    That night, as they lay curled around each other, the sweat of their activities still cooling on their flushed bodies, Holmes brought up the suggestion which had been on his mind since that first, marvelous realization of his love and utter devotion for Watson.

    The lamps were off, and only shadows filled the room as they panted, Holmes’ head resting comfortably on Watson’s chest, listening to his heart slow and his breathing calm.  Watson continued to lay half propped on several pillows, though Holmes knew it was only a matter of time before he adjusted them both accordingly for sleep.  

    “Watson,” he began, turning his head slightly so that only the top of his hair could be seen when the doctor looked down.  

    “What is it, Holmes?” Watson murmured, voice already starting to turn thick with exhaustion, his fingers running absently along Holmes’ back.

    “You know I love you,” Holmes began, then winced.  That had not sounded right, even to his own ears, and by the sudden tension filling his lover, not by Watson’s either.  “No, no, let me continue. You know how horrible I am at this, so please, just let have my say and then you can - well, then you can let me know what you think,” he hastened to add, trying to soothe even while his own body tensed despite his will.

    “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, the caution in his tone matching the tightness in his muscles.  The steady fingers did not cease their movement on the detective’s back, however, and the simple movement gave Holmes the encouragement to continue.

    “You know that in matters of physical expressions of love I have - well, my experience is very limited,” Holmes continued, despite his internal grimace at how clumsy his speech sounded.  

    “Yes, I know,” Watson soothed, bending his neck to place an awkward kiss to the top of his head.  

    He said no more, though, waiting for Holmes to continue, as patient with him in this aspect of their lives as he tended to be in all others.  Holmes felt his muscles relax slightly in response to Watson’s own easing, though he did not look up to meet the other’s gaze.  

    “I know there are - that is to say, we spoke briefly of this the other day.  You said I had only to ask, and  - and I am.  Asking, that is.  I am asking.”  

    It took Watson’s brain a moment to catch up with Holmes’ tentative words, his sluggish thoughts taking a minute to process which conversation Holmes was referencing and what, exactly, he was asking for.  

    “Oh,” he gasped, surprised, and felt his heart speed up at the sudden realization.  

    Holmes tensed in his arms, and automatically he pulled him closer, pulled him up until he was no longer resting against his chest but was face to face with him, kneeling above him with his arms on either side of Watson’s shoulders against the headboard.  Despite the fact he was quite spent, Watson felt his body stir in interest at the position and quickly had to suppress the urge to kiss Holmes breathless again.  

    “We do not have to,” he whispered, reaching up to stroke Holmes’ cheek, amazed to see his hand tremble slightly.  “You know I love you, too, and there is no need -”

    “I want to,” Holmes insisted, his voice firm despite the fact he kept it low.  

    In the complete dark of the room there was no way to gauge his expression, but Watson could picture the stubborn set of his lips, the drawn eyebrows, and the serious furrow of his brow.  Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he surged forward, kissing Holmes deeply, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce embrace.   

    Holmes reciprocated, the two of them holding each other as emotions too strong to be voiced surged between them.  Only after their hearts had begun to calm did they shift, Holmes sinking down once more so his head could rest on Watson’s chest, the doctor adjusting the pillows behind him so he was laying down.  

    “If you feel you are ready, truly feel it, and not just want to think you are, then -” he paused, breathing deeply of Holmes’ scent, the smell of sex still heavy in the hair and their own musk lingering on their skin.  “Tomorrow night,” Watson whispered gently into the shell of Holmes’ ear.  

    “Yes,” Holmes agreed, already halfway to sleep, his breath evening out into little puffs against Watson’s shoulder.   “Sleep now, so tomorrow comes quicker,” Holmes mumbled.  

    He pressed a lazy kiss to Watson’s slick flesh, snuggling down further as Watson clumsily pulled the blankets tighter about them.  With the exertions of the day finally taking their toll, both men drifted off to slumber, wrapped around each other like two bodies trying to become one.

***

    They were both slightly shy and awkward the next morning, though neither would have been able to explain why if asked.  They traded gentle touches and lingering glances through their ablutions, but their actions were nearly chaste.

    When they sat down for breakfast, Mrs. Everman took one look at them and smiled fondly, patting their shoulders and humming to herself.

    “So good to see young love,” she sighed happily as she left them to eat, paying no mind to the blushes this pronouncement induced.  

    If not for having such proper table manners, Watson would have buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment, and had to laugh as Holmes had no such reticence.  
      
    “That woman -” he grumbled into his hands, shaking his head.

    “- saw you in nappies and is happy to see you happy,” Watson finished for him, grinning at his friend’s mortification.  “Honestly, Holmes, you have to admit.  This is as close as we’ll come to a honeymoon, and it’s bound to show.”

    The words had barely left his mouth before he found himself stunned by their implication.  He watched Holmes carefully to see if he was as shaken by their meaning as himself, but his friend only shook his head again and proceeded to dig into his meal with single minded determination as his blush slowly faded.

    It took Watson a few minutes more to regain his equilibrium and to follow suit, but he could not keep the thought from repeating itself in his mind.

    He watched as Holmes quickly finished his meal, though he lingered over his own, sipping his tea and savoring the perfectly cooked kippers, allowing his thoughts to process fully.  

    “Holmes, would you mind terribly if I took Gladstone for a walk?” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend, but wishing for time to himself to collect his thoughts and settle his suddenly agitated mind.  “Alone?”

    For one second he feared he had hurt his friend horribly, but Holmes’ startled expression vanished as he looked up, taking in Watson’s appearance and seeming to read, as he ever had, his troubled thoughts and the reason for the request. His features gentled into understanding and compassion, and he reached across the table to squeeze Watson’s hand.  

    “Take all the time you need,” he said softly, his knowing gaze doing more to calm Watson’s uncertainty than his words.   The doctor smiled thankfully, squeezing back, and watched as Holmes stood.  “Now, I am going to wander off and find something to keep myself occupied.  If you hear any loud explosions, pay them no mind.”

    For one moment Watson feared for those who worked at the estate, and how they might react should his friend actually follow through on his warning.  Then he remembered that those he was surrounded by had known Holmes for a great many years, and would be accustomed to his habits by now.  

    Feeling suddenly restless he went in search of Gladstone, finding the dog lazily snoring in front of the empty fireplace in the study.  Within a few short moments the two of them were out in the  brilliant sunlight, Watson adjusting his hat to keep the worst of the glare from his eyes.

    He had no destination in mind, and chose a path at random, allowing the aging bulldog to roam where he would.  It was a beautiful day, and the peace of the landscape about him helped settle the last of his nerves, and granted him the calm to let his thoughts order themselves.

    For all intents and purposes, he realized, he was married to Holmes.  The two of them shared a home, finances, and business.  They spent most of their time together, either in work or play, and now, with the final steps taken to make their love physical, they shared a bed as well.  

    He had never thought to be married again, and certainly not so soon after Mary’s death.  Only a year had passed, after all, since he had laid her to rest, thinking himself as alone in the world as when he returned from Afghanistan.  

    Then, as now, Holmes had entered his life and turned his perceptions around.  Only this time, he knew full well what he had entered into when he agreed to move back in to Baker Street.  In essence, their courtship had started well over ten years ago, and despite the trials that had separated and nearly destroyed them, their bond was stronger than ever.

    But…

    Watson sighed, sinking down onto a conveniently placed bench, resting his head in his hands.  

    He loved Holmes, more than he had ever loved another, even Mary, God rest her.  And the thought of what the night would bring sent a thrill through his blood the likes of which he had not experienced since his wedding day.  

    He stopped the thought before it could even begin, fiercely reining in his emotions and wrestling control back to the here and now.  Just as he would not sully Mary’s memory with wishes of what may have been, he was not going to tarnish what he had with Holmes by thinking of past lovers.  

    That Holmes was still technically a virgin meant he would have to proceed gently and cautiously, though the detective would not appreciate him thinking so.  The man had always thought himself above the inconveniences of the flesh, but Watson had made his trade in them, and knew the danger that was presented.  Should he fail to take adequate precautions, or proceed too hastily, he could harm his friend terribly, and he would rather cut his own hand off than do so.  

    No, the past week had very much been as a honeymoon for the two of them, and  Holmes would just have to indulge his romanticism for a little while longer.  Though the laws of England prevented any such event being recognized legally, for the two of them, their affection was just as binding.   Watson knew, as surely as he knew anything in his life, that he belonged, totally and completely, to Sherlock Holmes, and the other man belonged to him.   

    Smiling, suddenly at ease with himself and the situation, he stood, gathering Gladstone to his side and heading back to the house.  He may have only been gone for a few hours, but he dreaded to think of what Holmes had been up to in that time.

    As though in answer to his thoughts, a loud explosion startled him into a crouch, Gladstone howling beside him.  Smoke rose faintly in the distance, though from where exactly he could not tell.  Shaking his head, he stood once more and made his way more quickly.

    It would not do, after all, to have Mrs. Everman kill his husband.  

***

    The explosion, it turned out, had actually been Mrs. Everman’s doing, though Holmes had certainly had a hand in it.  The two of them had been attempting to find a way to cook a goose faster than the usual several hours.  Holmes, in his infinite idiocy, had decided that adding a bit of gun powder to the fire might speed up the process, and for some reason Watson could not fathom, Mrs. Everman had agreed.  

    Watson still couldn’t understand the particulars of that, but both Holmes and Mrs. Everman, despite being a bit soot covered, were laughing nearly hysterically when he arrived and was explained all this by Mrs. Everman’s nephew.  

    He was relieved that they had at least decided to experiment outside, over the cooking pit he remembered Holmes had mentioned all those years ago when they had been imprisoned for disturbing the peace.  It was still a sore topic between them, Watson leaving Holmes to fend for himself in the prison yard after Mary had bailed him out, and they rarely ever spoke of it, but the memory remained of Holmes’ description of Mycroft’s estate, and the open pit where he had suggested cooking a lamb.

    Now, it seemed they had deemed the pit their testing ground, rather than risk the kitchen.  A bit of common sense that Watson attributed to Mrs. Everman.  Quite a crowd had gathered around the still smoking ruins of what he supposed was left of both goose and spit, though no one seemed alarmed by the sight.  

    Watson was reminded once more that he was among people who not only knew, but accepted whole heartedly, his friend’s eccentricities.  He could not help but smile as he finally left the young man who  had filled him in on the goings on and made his way over to where Holmes was sitting, a good three yards from the pit, smoking peacefully on his pipe.

    “Ah, Watson!” he called when he noticed his lover making his way towards him.  “You missed a grand spectacle!”

    “Yes, so Henry was saying!” Watson greeted, shaking his head as he eyed the ruins once more.  

    “Oh, it was a brilliant idea!” Mrs. Everman chimed in, laughing as she patted the stray wisps of hair which had escaped her bun.  She had a spot of ash on her nose and chin, but seemed otherwise undaunted.  “In theory it made perfectly good sense, but I suppose we’ll have to stick to cooking the Christmas dinner the old way.”

    Watson, who had been attempting to maintain some of his composure, lost it completely, joining in with the laughter as he regarded her.  

    “Mrs. Everman,” he sighed, moving forward to embrace her in a quick hug, knowing it was bad decorum, but not caring a wit.  “You really shouldn’t encourage him.”  

    “Oh, nonsense,” she laughed, hugging him back.  “It was just a bit of fun, and trust me, Doctor, more often than not, our Mr. Holmes’ ideas have spared me quite a few hours of labor over the years.  No,  no, we’ll have to try something different next time.”

    “Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, pursing his lips around the stem of his pipe as he pondered the charred carcass.  “I think the error was in the amount of powder used.  Perhaps if we used a weaker strength, or even a different composition, the results would be more in line with what we are looking for.”

    Before Watson could open his mouth to protest, Mrs. Everman turned her attention back to Holmes and said firmly, “Well, we’ll have to wait for another day, Mr. Holmes. That was the only goose that was about to go off and I’ll not have us wasting another.  Closer to Christmas, perhaps, when they’re a bit more abundant, and that will give you time to find the correct strength of the powder.”

    Watson stared at her in something close to wonder, amazed at her deft handling of his friend’s curiosity, and even more so at Holmes’ willingness to go along with the restrictions placed upon him.  

    “Perhaps Mycroft will have some ideas,” he murmured thoughtfully, standing and brushing at his shirt.  “Did you have a good walk, old boy?” he asked, turning his attention back to Watson, the goose apparently forgotten for the moment.  

    Despite the banality of the question, Watson understood the query hidden beneath the simple words and smiled fondly at Holmes, making his way over to help brush off a bit more of the soot which had accumulated in his hair.  

    “It was a wonderful walk,” he said softly, and knew by Holmes’ expression that he understood perfectly.

    The milling crowd, sensing no more excitement, began to disperse, heading back to their duties with wide grins and another tale to tell those who had been unfortunate enough to have missed the event.  Watson was dimly aware of their departure, but most of his attention was on Holmes.  

    “Did you want to go inside?  I think a change of clothes might be in order, and then perhaps a game of chess?” he asked.

    Holmes grinned, allowing Watson to take his elbow, escorting him back to their rooms for a quick wash.  He could feel the other’s eyes on him as he stripped away his blackened shirt, and smiled as he quickly wiped the ash from his skin, knowing Watson was admiring the view as he had the other morning.   When the other man handed him his shirt, though, he was startled at the hand gently placed on his arm before he could don it, and looked up to see Watson’s gaze on  him, an expression he could not quite decipher on his face.

    “I love you,” Watson whispered softly, moving forward to kiss him deeply, hands going around the slender waist as he did so.  

    Holmes wrapped his own arms around Watson’s shoulders and returned the kiss eagerly, the two of them mindless of the time as they lost themselves in lips and tongues and taste.  When they pulled back enough to stare into each other‘s eyes, breathless and with swollen lips, both were grinning disgustingly sappy smiles.  

    “Not that I object, dearest, but what brought this on?” Holmes asked softly, the use of the endearment startling and new, but feeling appropriate.  

    “I just realized, rather belatedly, that I am going to make the most delicious love to my husband tonight,” Watson murmured, ducking his head in a sudden bout of shyness so his forehead rested against Holmes’ shoulder.  “And although we will have no wedding rings or ceremony, it took me rather by surprise when I realized I was once again a kept man.”

    “Ahh,” Holmes sighed, moving his left hand to rest gently on the back of Watson‘s head, his fingers twining through his hair.  “Yes, I was rather startled myself  when I realized we had been married for some time.  I hope it was not too much of a shock for you?”

    “No,“ Watson assured, his voice steady as he looked back up, meeting Holmes‘ gaze with something like wonder.  “It was actually quite a marvelous realization.”

    They kissed again, though after only a short time broke apart once more, both knowing it would be too easy to lose themselves in the moment.  Neither man wished their upcoming encounter to be rushed or interrupted.

    “Chess?” Holmes asked, clearing his throat at the huskiness of his voice.

    “Yes,” Watson agreed, stepping back slowly, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on Holmes’ chest before he moved, picking up the discarded shirt from the floor and offering it.

    Holmes finished dressing, splashed a bit more water on his face, and then adjusted himself as discreetly as he could.  Watson grinned despite himself and the several deep breaths he took to calm his own ardor.   

    “Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the door.  

    Neither man commented on the other’s slow, stiff gait as they made their way out of the room and to the study.  By the time tea was poured and the chessboard set up, they were each in better possession of themselves, and able to concentrate fully on the game.

    Holmes won 4 of 5, but Watson’s victory was, as he put it, “Utterly brilliant!”  

***

    The rest of the day passed lazily, the two men enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company.  Holmes played his violin for several hours outside in the garden to Watson and a small crowd of the regular household, his cheeks flushed with exertion and the joy music always instilled in him.

    Mrs. Everman requested several songs, and only when stomachs began to rumble did she tear herself away to see to the preparations of dinner, pulling two of the servants with her despite their laughing protests.  

    After, the two men enjoyed a leisurely walk, the fading sunlight softening the edges of the world and casting long shadows before them as they strolled aimlessly.  Holmes spoke of the hot spring he had visited on his travels, and Watson regaled him with tales of lavish Indian baths he had enjoyed.  

    They lingered over their wine at the table after supper, each gaze they shared a bit more knowing and the touches lasting longer, until they were nearly holding hands and Watson felt it was time to move matters to the bedroom.  He finished his wine, watched as Holmes finished his, and then, with a calmness he did not necessarily feel, took his hand and led him to their room.

    Once more the quilt was pulled back enticingly, nightshirts arranged on top and a fire filling the room with warmth and flickering light.  They did not bother turning on the lamps, hesitating at the foot of the bed as they kissed.  

    “We don’t have to do this,” Watson offered as he pulled back, running his fingers slowly through Holmes’ hair.  “Some men do not enjoy this, and you know I am happy with what we have.”

    “I know,” Holmes assured softly.  He took a step back, disentangling Watson’s fingers as he did so, holding both hands in his own as he stared into Watson’s eyes with a seriousness usually reserved for those moments when danger was imminent.  His voice, when he spoke again, contained a hint of steel, his expression earnest.  “I am not a woman, Watson.  Despite the fact I am a virgin, I know the mechanics of what we are about to do, and I am fully aware that some discomfort is inevitable.  But please believe me when I say I want this - that I want you - and I trust you implicitly.”

    He waited for Watson’s nod of understanding, for his lover to squeeze the hands still holding his, before he continued.  

    “Now, get what you may need and kindly ravage me!”

    Watson burst out laughing, his surprise overriding any lingering nervousness.  

    “Very well,” he murmured, pulling Holmes close to kiss him, slowly, using his tongue to trace a path from Holmes’ lips to his jaw, where he mouthed the sensitive skin, moving down to his neck to graze the skin with his teeth.  Holmes moaned, and he found himself smiling.  “I think we are wearing entirely too  many clothes.  Get undressed, and I’ll get what we will need.”

    He did not ask again if Holmes was sure about this course of action.  He knew his friend better than nearly anyone, he liked to think, and once Holmes had determined to do something there was very little that would change his mind.  Now all that was to be done was to make certain he was as tender, as caring, and as loving as he could be.   

    As he searched his bag for the small vial he kept for delicate patients he could hear the sound of Holmes undressing, the slide of cloth against skin and the rustle of the duvet as he settled on the bed.  With a smile of triumph Watson stood, the dark brown bottle held in his hand as he turned, and froze at the sight before him.

    He had seen Holmes naked several times before now, but none of them had prepared him for the lithe figure that sprawled on the bed.   The firelight cast a golden glow upon Holmes’ skin, shadows outlining the perfect form of his muscles, his manhood half-erect in the thick patch of pubic hair that it nestled in.   He watched Watson with open desire, his pale face tinged with color.  

    “You look gorgeous,” Watson breathed, moving slowly over to the bed and placing the small vial on the bedside table.  

    Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt, removing collar and cuffs with the ease of long practice.  As first waistcoat, then shirt, were dropped carelessly to the floor, it was as though the very last of the barriers between himself and the man he was about to love were banished.   Holmes watched as he casually removed his shoes and socks, then pulled his trousers down without fanfare.  He licked his lips unconsciously as Watson undid his smallclothes and finally stood completely naked before him.

    His own manhood stood erect, and Watson watched as Holmes gazed upon it with both want and speculation.  Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, straddling Holmes’ thighs and leaning down to kiss him tenderly.  

    “This position is the most intimate, but may be more uncomfortable,” he whispered, pulling back enough to look into Holmes’ eyes.  “It may be easier for you on your side or stomach.”

    “Face to face,” Holmes answered immediately, smiling at Watson’s fond eye-roll.  “You know I never simply take the easy route, old boy.”

    “Of course you don’t,” Watson laughed, running a hand almost reverently down Holmes stomach.  He followed the movement with his mouth, sliding down the other’s body to kiss and lick his way to Holmes’ now fully erect member.   

    When he took him into his mouth he was answered by a loud, nearly obscene groan, smiling at the need which filled the small, panted breaths above him.  Releasing him only long enough to retrieve the bottle from the bedside table, he could feel the other’s eyes on him, watching as he coated his fingers with the rose scented oil.  

    “Roses, Watson?” Holmes asked, laughter and want leaving his voice shaky.

    “Trust me, Holmes, it wasn’t planned.  If you’re still curious later I’ll tell you what it’s used for,” he answered, and returned to what he had been doing before Holmes could answer.  

    He continued to suck and lick his lover’s manhood even as he moved his oil coated hand to the most intimate part of his friend’s body, circling the small, puckered hole before slowly inserting a finger.  

    They had done this once before, in the bath the other day.  As had happened then, Holmes’ body seemed to accept the intrusion easily, Holmes groaning as he pressed down against Watson’s hand, his breath hitching.  

    It was very little effort after that to slowly work him open, distracting him from any discomfort by placing tender, delicate kisses over various parts of his body, working his way from knee to shoulder and back again, alternating using his mouth and his hand on the turgid member which glistened with Watson’s saliva.   

    By the time he had worked three fingers deep into Holmes’ body, scissoring them and pressing gently against the small gland inside his passage, Holmes was panting and nearly incoherent with desire.  

    Watson levered himself up, bracing his weight on his arms as he positioned himself, and at Holmes’ silent nod slid into his lover’s body for the first time, his own need throbbing and aching with want.  

    Holmes tensed beneath him and he halted, moving to cup Holmes’ cheek with a trembling hand.

    “Look at me,” he whispered, needing to see Holmes’ expression, to know he wasn’t hurting him.  “If you want to stop, we stop.”

    His body protested the very thought, but he knew that if Holmes so much as uttered a word of protest they would abandon the attempt immediately.  But Holmes covered the hand on his cheek with his own and shook his head, sweat beading his forehead and dampening his hair.  

    “Just - a moment,” he asked, voice hoarse and broken, his breathing ragged as his body adjusted around Watson’s manhood.

    Slowly the internal muscles relaxed, and as they did so Watson was able to press forward the final little bit, until he was fully buried.  For a long moment they lay completely flushed, panting and shaking before Holmes experimentally squeezed around him, and he could not help the small thrust of his hips.

    “God,” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes as he shifted, moving his hips as Watson thrust once more, slowly and carefully.

    “All right?” Watson gasped, moving slightly to better brace himself, removing his hand from Holmes’ cheek so that he could look down on him as he moved, watching Holmes’ expression as it morphed from discomfort to ecstasy.  
      
    “Watson,” Holmes whimpered, eyes slitting open to stare at him in a lust filled fog.  “God, Watson.”

    “It’s all right,” Watson soothed, bending down to kiss him, changing his angle slightly and earning a throaty groan.  “Holmes,” he whispered brokenly, his hips stuttering as the tight heat around him convulsed, Holmes arching his back as he gasped and clutched at Watson’s arm, his other hand moving to his flushed, leaking manhood and stroking it desperately.

    “Going to - God, Watson!”

    Watson did not falter, his own rhythm becoming erratic as the tingle in his spine signaled his own imminent release.  

    “Let me see you,” he breathed, watching in wonder as Holmes gasped, his head thrown back as he moaned, body stiffening as his little death swept over him, his essence warm and slick between them.  

    “Holmes!” Watson called, burying himself as deeply as he could and stilling, eyes closed tightly against the almost agony of his pleasure, knowing his release was filling Holmes tight passage, claiming him as no one had ever claimed him before or would again.  He was Watson’s, and the animalistic part of his brain roared its victory as he slowly sank down, resting his weight against the heaving chest, feeling Holmes’ heart beating rapidly against his own.

    “All right?” he managed to whisper, looking up at Holmes’ silent nod, the other’s eyes closed as he panted for breath, lips red and swollen, expression one of complete contentment.  

    When they disentangled a few minutes later there was a moment of discomfort, but Watson made certain there was no blood mixed in with the oil and his own release, and then held Holmes securely in his arms.

    “Thank you,” Holmes whispered into his shoulder, unable to suppress the shudders which shook his body.  

    Watson knew they were a reaction to the overwhelming emotions and sensations he was experiencing and held him tighter, pulling the blanket securely around them.  They would have to clean themselves soon, but Holmes was in no hurry, and Watson had no issue with holding him for as long as he desired.

***

    His body ached in ways he had never thought to experience, his mind foggy with pleasure and exhaustion.   He did not protest when Watson untangled himself and retrieved a damp flannel from the wash basin, tenderly cleaning him and taking special care of his intimate areas.  

    He had never known such exquisite pleasure in his life, not just with the act itself but with the knowledge that he had given Watson a part of himself no one else could ever claim.  He truly belonged to the doctor now, in every way that was possible.  

    When warm arms closed around him he held onto them tightly, Watson’s front to his back as they lay on their sides, their breathing evening out slowly as the rush of their exertions finally started to recede.  

    “I love you,” he whispered sleepily, his limbs turning leaden with the pull of slumber.

    “I love you, too.”

    The words were breathed into his ear, a kiss placed tenderly against his neck, and then he knew no more.  

  
***

    He dreamt of waterfalls; of a sibilant voice fading into mocking laughter before morphing into a scream.  It echoed around him, the very air thrumming with the cry, and when he tried to move, to block his ears, he found his body frozen.  

    When he woke, breath struggling to fill his chest, he found his limbs frozen, his sleep muddled mind trying to comprehend he was in no danger.  An arm, warm and muscular, lay across his chest, and Watson’s deep, snuffling breaths puffed gently against the back of his neck.  

    Slowly his body relaxed, taking in the shadows of the room cast by the dying embers from the fire.  Above the mantel a clock ticked, its steady rhythm reminiscent of a metronome.  

    Carefully he disentangled himself, wincing as a soreness in his backside reminded him of the acts the two had engaged in earlier.  Despite the persistent memory-fear in his foggy brain he found himself smiling, lingering as he donned his dressing gown to allow his gaze to take in the lax features of his slumbering lover.

    Watson remained deeply asleep, exhausted by their lovemaking.  He was curled on his side, the arm which had been cast over Holmes stretched out before him.   The duvet bunched under his arm, and his naked shoulders and chest were clearly visible.

    Tenderly, Holmes drew the blanket around the doctor’s form, tucking it carefully under his chin to stave off any chill.  Then, feet protected against the spring cold by his slippers, he made his way silently out the door.  

    He knew the hallways and side passages of the estate intimately.  He had played with Mycroft in them from a very young age, and had spent many of his formative years exploring and memorizing the layout.  If blindfolded he had no doubt he could make his way easily from any point to any point without a moment’s hesitation.

    Now he put his knowledge to use and descended to the garden, easily avoiding the servants’ quarters and those still awake despite the hour.  When he stepped out into the star filled night, cold air filled his lungs, a slight breeze caressing his face and teasing the hair at his temple.  

    To his left and hanging from an ornamental hook, a wind chime’s gentle tinkle floated across the small sanctuary.  The trees which surrounded the garden and kept the worst of the wind at bay swayed, leaves rustling in accompaniment to the chimes.  

    Slowly, heedless of the mud from so many days of rain, Holmes made his way to the small stone bench his mother had placed along the well worn path.  Though the garden was not large by many standards, it had always been a refuge in his family for those who sought to escape the world.  Servants knew not to bother any who took solace in its sheltered isolation, and Holmes could remember often sitting for long periods in silence with his mother.  

    Now, feeling the chill from the bench seep past the thin material of his dressing gown and into his naked flesh, the last remnants of his nightmare faded away.  Tension drained from his lithe frame, and though his body ached pleasantly in new and interesting places, he found the bench strangely comfortable.

    His world filled with the night sounds of the estate, a music as comforting as it was unique.   It seemed to come from all around him, from the chimes and the wind and his own breaths, settling into his bones until he was swaying in time with it.  

    He had once heard his father describe the sensation as being swallowed by a music box, and distantly he could only agree as each new chirp and rustle seemed to  pluck upon the tines of his soul.  It was an occurrence which happened seldom, but was all encompassing when it did.   

    He did not know how long he stayed sat on the bench, lost to the music only he could hear, but when a voice, frantic and lost, called his name, he opened his eyes and was immediately greeted by the sight of Watson.   Dressed in trousers, shirt, shoes and dressing gown, the other man stood in the doorway, squinting into the darkness to make out his form, worry creasing his brow.  The moment he caught sight of Holmes he seemed to relax, running a hand through his already disarrayed hair.  

    “Hello, Watson,” Holmes greeted, sighing in contentment as he stood, the sound of his feet squelching in the mud accompanying the creak of a wooden gate, the calling of a night bird.  

    “Holmes, thank God!” Watson exclaimed, running over to him and embracing him almost desperately.  “What the hell are you doing out here?”

    “Listening!” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes once more as Watson’s heartbeat, frantic and racing, thumped against his chest.  His head rested against the other‘s collarbone, each breath a vibrating note that rose above the others. “It’s such a lovely night!” he whispered.  “I wish you could hear it.”

    “Hear what, Holmes?“ Watson asked softly, confusion and fear coloring his tone.  “Are you naked under this?” Watson asked after a moment of silence, pulling back to take in his lover’s appearance, fingering the thin cloth of the dressing gown. “Good God, Holmes, you’re freezing!  Come, we must get you inside before you catch your death!”

    Holmes allowed himself to be led back into the house, Watson’s arms still securely around him.   He blinked at the sudden light which filled the hallways, smiling almost vacantly as the music about him changed, the hiss of the gas lamps joining their footsteps and the footsteps of those who bustled around.  Voices seemed to become a chorus, and he found himself stumbling to a halt, listening.

    “Holmes, look at me!” Watson ordered, his gaze intent as the detective obeyed.  “What did you take?”  

    There was more force in the question than the doctor had intended, but the vacant expression on his friend’s countenance frightened him more than he cared to admit.  Waking to find the other man gone, the sheets cold and no sign of where he had got to had started doubts creeping into Watson’s mind.  Fearful thoughts of Holmes being frightened by what they had done or hating Watson for taking things too fast had all skittered through his brain, chasing themselves down the ’what if’ paths until he had lurched from the bed and dressed hastily.

    When no sight of his friend could be found along the corridor, he had set out downstairs, intent on searching every room of the estate if he had to.  When he had nearly collided with Mrs. Everman, a cup of tea splashing across the floor in her surprise, he had not thought twice about asking for her help.  

    Now, nearly an hour after those first few moments of wakefulness, when battle trained senses had alerted him that something was wrong, he stared deeply into Holmes’ eyes, seeking any trace of chemical which he may have turned to, or regret clouding the eyes.  

    What he found was only sleepy confusion and the glazed, almost dreamy look that resembled, but was not quite, like a morphine torpor.    
   
    “Holmes?  Did you take anything?” Watson demanded again, though more gently this time.  

    “Take?” Holmes asked, wrinkling his brow at Watson’s concern.  “I haven’t taken anything, Watson.”

    “You’ve found him, then!”  Mrs. Everman’s voice interrupted the two of them as she came around the corner, Clara close behind.  Both were dressed in their white nightgowns, the little maid holding a candle tightly in her hands as she followed the older woman.   “Is he all right?”

    “I’m not certain,” Watson admitted, allowing his intermingled worry and relief to show through by his grimacing smile.  “He’s a bit - off.”

    Mrs. Everman motioned Clara to move the light closer so she could look at Holmes, and when she saw his expression her worry seemed to drain out of her, leaving her smiling and pressing a hand to her chest.

     "Oh, dear, he's like that, is he?” she laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of Holmes’ eyes.  He smiled at her, cocking his head as though listening.  “It’s all right, Doctor, this has happened before.  We'll just get the bath for him, and you can put him to bed.  He won't be making a lot of sense until the morning, I promise."

    Holmes suddenly scowled, glaring at the woman. "I'm making complete sense!” he protested.  “You just can't hear it, so it only sounds as though I'm not!  I'm perfectly fine!"

    “Yes, perfectly,” Watson sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Come along, Holmes, I want to get you warmed up.”

    Still scowling, lips turned down in a cross pout, Holmes allowed himself to be led back to the room, Mrs. Everman remaining behind while Clara took off to arrange for the bath.  

    “Honestly, Watson,” Holmes persisted as he was steered into the room, where servants were already hastily setting up the metal tub, yawning sleepily in their nightclothes as they scuttled around.  

    “Hush,” Watson murmured, tightening his grip around Holmes’ waist.  

    He sat them both down on the bed, making certain Holmes’ dressing gown was closed for modesty’s sake, though he doubted it would have bothered the servants otherwise.  They all seemed to take being woken in the middle of the night to search for one of the masters of the estate with surprising equanimity, and not one of them batted an eye at Holmes’ mud covered feet or near nudity.  

    Clara entered a moment later, carrying a large bucket which steamed enticingly, and poured it with practiced ease into the tub.  Several others followed, until in what was an extraordinary short time, the tub was filled halfway and ready.

    Watson waited until the room cleared out, watching in surprise as Clara approached bashfully, smiling shyly at him before turning to Holmes and whispering, as though for the detective’s ears only, “Is the song different this time, Mr. Holmes?"

    Holmes smiled up at her, his expression only slightly less vacuous as he sighed, “Yes.  Yes, Clara, very different.”

     Watson blinked in astonishment as her heart-shaped face burst into a delighted smile, her cheeks dimpling.   She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Holmes’ cheek, ducking her head at her impropriety.

    "Good.  Bout time you had a different melody," she whispered, turning swiftly and leaving, her bucket clanging slightly as it banged against her leg in her haste.  

    She closed the door behind her, still smiling brightly, and when Watson turned to ask Holmes what she had been talking about he found his friend smiling as well, seemingly pleased with the strange conversation.  

    Giving up on getting any coherent answers from anyone that night, Watson instead turned his attention to helping Holmes undress and settle in the tub.  As he gently dribbled water over Holmes’ chest with his hand, sleeves dripping unheeded, he wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever stop being surprised by this man he loved.

    He hoped not.  

***

    Holmes woke slowly, breathing deeply as he took in his surroundings without opening his eyes.   The sheets beneath him were warm and smooth against his bare skin, reminding him that he had gone from bath to bed without dressing first.  He shifted his head, enjoying the rasp of his hair against the pillow, the way it cradled his head.  

    In front of him and breathing softly, though not as deeply as if he were sleeping, he could sense Watson, much the way he suspected flowers could sense the sun.  His lips turned up as he snuggled closer into the other’s warmth, blinking his eyes open to see the blue gaze regarding him fondly.

    “Good morning,” Watson whispered softly, his face close enough to Holmes’ on the pillow that he could make out the pale eyelashes.  

    “Good morning,” Holmes responded, just as softly, and closed the distance between them to press his lips lightly against the other man’s.  

    He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation even as he listened for the stray notes which had permeated his senses last night.  He was relieved to hear nothing more than the songbirds outside their window.  

    As if sensing his thoughts, Watson pulled back to regard him, searching his face.

    “How are you feeling?” he asked.  

    Holmes smiled as he shifted, the tenderness in his backside reminding him once more of what had occurred between them.  

    “I love you,” he answered, smiling as Watson’s eyes crinkled around the corners in a relieved grin.  “And although I fear I may be unable to sit comfortably for a few days, dear boy, I can only wonder when we may do it all over again?”

    Watson laughed, burying his face into the pillow to muffle the sound, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head.  

    “Don’t ever change,” he murmured into the pillow, emerging only to gasp slightly and stare at Holmes in wonder.  “You scared the hell out of me last night, I hope you realize,” he added, conversationally.

    Holmes sighed, nodding his head.  

    “That wasn’t my intent,” he promised, moving to brush a hand through Watson’s tangled, disheveled hair.  “I had simply wanted to slip out for a few moments to gather my thoughts.  I was - distracted,” he added, reluctantly.

    Watson regarded him, his face softening into the one he seemed to reserve solely for Holmes.  It was part fond exasperation and part worry, a half smile which warred with a creased brow.  

    “Please don’t do it again,” he asked, covering Holmes’ hand with his own, stopping the caress.  “I understand fully needing to be by one’s self, to contemplate momentous events without a second party intruding.  But when I woke and found the sheets cold… “  Watson closed his eyes, visibly reliving the memory. “I had feared I had frightened you off, or that you had second thoughts.  It was not - not a pleasant way to wake.”

    “Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes hastened to ask, inching closer so that his knees brushed against the doctor’s, resting his forehead against the cool brow.  “I had not intended to be gone so long, and - well, when I become as I was last night, I do not always have the best grasp of time.”

    Watson could feel Holmes’ shoulders tense, as though prepared for him to question the strange condition which had overcome him.  But Watson had learned long ago the value of patience, especially in things concerning the detective, and only kissed him softly.  

    “When you are ready, you can tell me about it.”

    Holmes sighed, his shoulders easing back from around his ears, and pressed his nose into the crease of Watson’s neck.  Watson released the hand he still covered and reciprocated the motion of running his hand through sleep disarrayed hair.  

    For a long time they remained thus, entangled and silent, simply enjoying the other’s company.   Watson could not help the smile that seemed to keep trying to escape, and Holmes, who could read his thoughts as easily as ever, understood why.  

    Holmes was his now in every way that mattered.  He did not doubt for an instant that no other would ever belong as he did to Watson again.  Knowing this, and knowing his doctor, he was certain Watson would be even more protective and mother hennish than ever.  

    As fingers slowly carded through his hair and down his cheek, Holmes found he did not truly mind that in the least.  After all, he reminded himself rather ruefully, he was probably going to be just as, if not more so, invested in his friend’s well being.    
        
***

    It was only when Holmes’ stomach rumbled and Watson’s bladder began to make him shift uncomfortably that they parted, each going about their morning ablutions in languid motions.  They lingered over dressing, kissing and caressing and basically being a hindrance to each other, until they deemed themselves respectable and left the privacy of their rooms.    
      
    When they settled at the breakfast table the servants bustled about as usual, none of them mentioning Holmes’ strange episode, and Watson found his curiosity piqued despite himself.  He watched  as Mrs. Everman smiled tenderly at his friend as she set the teapot before him, absently smoothing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead before departing.

    “Have a good meal, gentlemen,” she said as she left, her fond expression taking in both men.  

    Watson contemplated his toast as he buttered it with more focus than was necessary, more than willing to follow the others’ lead and  let the subject lie a while longer.  When he caught Holmes watching him out of the corner of his eye, nibbling on his own meal, he knew he had made the correct decision in not pressing the issue.  

    “What would you like to do today?” he asked instead, and smiled smugly at the surprised expression which crossed Holmes’ features.   “We could go for a walk, or a ride, if you - oh, perhaps not,” he added as Holmes winced at the idea, shifting slightly in his chair.  

    “I think, perhaps, a carriage ride,” Holmes suggested, taking a delicate sip of his tea.  “You haven’t been around the village yet, and there is a bookstore I think you would enjoy.  Not to mention, a lovely café we can enjoy lunch at.”

    “Wonderful!” Watson exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the thought of leaving the relative isolation of the estate.  

    Though the peace and solitude had done wonders for Holmes’ nerves, not to mention their relationship, Watson figured it was time for them to venture out into public once more, if only for a short time.  Holmes thrived around people normally, and if he could increase his tolerance for large crowds, by the time they returned to London he would have an easier time escaping such attacks as prompted the retreat in the first place.  

    “I’m certain one of the others can arrange for Gladstone to have his daily constitutional, and we can set out after we’re done eating,” Watson thought aloud, absently sucking marmalade off his finger.  

    “Yes,” Holmes agreed, eyes riveted to the finger in Watson’s mouth.  

    Both men blushed when they realized what they were doing, and turned hastily back to their meals, coughing and shifting as they regained their composure.  Watson could not help, however, the smile which played about his lips at the slight blush which continued to tinge Holmes’ cheeks long after his attention had been diverted.

***

    They returned to the estate at nearly half two, each bearing a parcel of books from the seller Holmes had suggested, and a few other items they had picked up while idly strolling through the village.  

    Though Holmes had shown no sign of the anxiety which had descended on him so suddenly in London, Watson had been certain to keep an eye on him, and had insisted they return after lunch.  He was glad of the decision now as Holmes sleepily fell onto the settee in the library, curling up into his familiar position and asleep by the time Watson had settled himself in his own chair with his book.  

    The doctor did not remain seated for long, however.  After only a quarter hour he carefully set the book aside and crept from the room, making sure to close the door securely behind him.  He did not wish his friend’s slumber disturbed, and he did not wish to be interrupted while he sought the answers to last night’s strange events.  

    It did not take him long to find Clara, humming happily to herself as she scrubbed the corridor they had all converged at last night, erasing all traces of the mud they had trampled in.  

    “Clara?” Watson called softly, standing just outside the section she had already cleaned, her head jerking back to look at him with large, startled eyes.

    Her expression turned at once to a brilliant smile as she stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she made her way to him, curtseying smartly even as her eyes twinkled with mischief.  

    “Hello, Doctor,” she greeted him cheerfully.  “How is Mr. Holmes doin’ today?”

    “He’s very well, thank you,” he assured, his own smile turning rueful as he looked down at her.  “In fact,” he added, running a hand over his mustache thoughtfully, “he’s the reason I would like to speak to you, if you have a few moments.  I promise I won’t take you away from your work.”

    “I can always spare a few moments,” she assured cheekily, her dimples showing once more as she cast a disdainful glare at the bucket.  “’Specially when it comes to the floors!”

    He laughed, and motioned her to the small alcove where several jackets were hung and mud covered boots decorated the floor.  She watched him curiously as he absently straightened one of the coats, patient with a grace beyond her years and upbringing.     

    She was not the smallest maid in the house, and certainly not the youngest, but the deprivations of the street had taken their toll on her stature, and her delicate frame barely came to his shoulder.  She had been one of the first female Irregulars he had ever met, and had quickly disillusioned him to any thoughts that her sex impaired her ability to work for his friend.  She had also, much to her chagrin, been one of his patients, and had seemed to look at him with more trust than any other besides Holmes since that time.  

    He was happy to see her thriving, and cleared his throat as he broached the subject.

    “Clara, last night you asked Holmes if the song was different.  What did you mean by that?” he asked, leaning against the wall and folding his hands.

    She nodded, as though she had been expecting the question, and deliberately turned her attention to one of the boots at her feet, going to her knees as she picked up the brush that had hidden beside it and beginning to clean it.

    “It was just after you was married,” she began, looking up at him from beneath her lashes to gauge his reaction, clearing her throat when he nodded for her to continue.  “I was with Marble, helpin’ him find some bricks Mr. Holmes was interested in.  It was late, very dark like, when we saw him.”

    She paused, both in her speech and her movements, the brush resting against the wrinkled, cracked leather.  She gazed at the floor, frowning at the memory.  

    “At first we thought maybe he was drunk,” she continued, her tone quieter than before.  When she resumed the careful brush strokes they were softer, more deliberate and evenly paced.  Watson watched the movement, mesmerized, his complete attention on her words.  “When he got closer we saw he was swayin’ a bit and figured it might be a good idea to make sure he got home safe.  But he saw us and -”  She paused, swallowed hard and put more pressure behind the brushstrokes.  

    “He took our hands like we was his kids and led us back to Baker Street, humming all the way, as though he had just come from a concert.  But Marble and me, we both knew he had been to the boxing ring, as he was cut up in the face and his knuckles were all bloody.  He didn’t smell of drink, though, and when we got inside he talked to the old- um, the landlady,” she corrected herself quickly, earning a grin from Watson and a motion for her to continue.  “Well, he greeted her all nice and gentlemanly, and then took us both upstairs.  I don’t think she approved, said it was too late to have us littles up, but he ignored her and told her he had a treat for us.”

    She paused once more, looking up to Watson as though to make certain she had his attention.  When he nodded, she set the boot and brush aside, folding her hands in her lap and gazing at them intently.

    “He took out his violin, said he wanted us to share what he was hearin’.  We didn’t understand, as there was no music playin’, and that’s when he - when he told us.”  She closed her eyes, as though to better remember the exact words.  “He said, the music was too loud that night, that it wouldn’t go away.  And he wanted someone to hear it with him.  So he played for us, and - and my Lord, Doctor,” she breathed, shaking her head.  When she gazed back up at him he nearly flinched at the pinched look on her face.  “It was the saddest thing I ever heard!  It kept goin’ for near an hour before he seemed to remember we was there, and it was so late that he had us sleep on the floor by the fire so’s we wouldn’t get in trouble on the streets.  He curled up on the couch like he does, and hummed all night.”  

    She paused, as though uncertain whether to continue, but at Watson’s nod she let out a deep sigh and stood, brushing her skirts and avoiding his gaze.   

    “He was cryin’ in his sleep, like a little kid does when they’re too tired to cry awake.  And when he woke up and saw us, I think he had totally forgotten about what happened, ‘cause he looked all surprised like.”  She paused, took a deep breath, and met Watson’s gaze fully for the first time.  “Every time after I saw him, I asked if he still heard the song, and he said yes, and would hum a bit to me.”  

    She smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up once more.

    “But last night - last night he heard a different song!  And I ain’t never seen him so happy, Doctor!” she added earnestly, moving shyly past Watson back to her scrubbing.  “I’m so happy for you both, Dr. Watson, if I may say so.”

    “Thank you, Clara,” Watson murmured, returning her smile as she resumed her work and he turned to head back to the library.  

    He was lost in thought as he settled himself once more before the fireplace, empty now that the weather had settled into a gentle warmth during the day.  Absently he stroked his mustache, his gaze going unbidden to Holmes’ sleeping form, snoring softly on the couch.

    He had lived with the detective for nearly ten years, and not once had he seen an episode as he had witnessed the night before, or heard described to him.  According to Clara, the one she had seen had taken place shortly after his marriage, probably within the three month span when he had been too busy establishing his practice and settling his house to visit.  

    Guilt flickered briefly in his gut and he forced it down, determined not to dwell on the past.  What was done was done, and nothing could change it.  But gazing steadily at his sleeping friend, he could only wonder what else had occurred in his absence.    

***

    The next day dawned brightly, the sun already casting warmth into the bedroom as Holmes stirred lazily amongst the sheets.  Beside him, still slumbering deeply, Watson snored on, his nose wrinkling slightly as Holmes impishly tickled it very gently with a corner of the sheet.  

    The two of them had spent a quiet evening the previous night, sharing brandy and cigars in the library until late, when they had retired to collapse haphazardly into the bed, barely awake enough to strip off their jackets, collars and cuffs before giving up on the rest of the attire.  

    It had only been several hours later, when the light outside the window was nothing more than a thick velvet, that Watson had woken him up and insisted they both undress properly.

    Holmes had told him, quite emphatically, what he had thought of the idea, the exact phrasing of which brought a smile to his face now as he once more tickled his friend’s nose, smirking at Watson’s grimace as the other man turned his head, snuffling deeply in a sound suspiciously close to one a pig would make.

    Holmes buried his head in the pillow, trying to stifle his laughter as he ceased his teasing, shoulders shaking silently as he struggled not to giggle out loud.  Only when he had regained some control of himself did he settle down, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, as he lazily watched Watson sleep.  
      
    He was content.  

    The knowledge gentled his expression into something more mysterious and fond.  Those who had glimpsed the Mona Lisa would have recognized it, a secret turning of his lips that was meant for one person only.  

    Gently, Holmes ran his finger, feather light, along Watson’s eyebrow, tracing the delicate arch of bone and skin.   Memorizing once more the face of the man who held his heart.  

    He had despaired, once, of ever feeling anything other than misery again.  Carried his pain with him as a talisman against the dark, warding off the hopelessness and black moods which had plagued him before that wretched time of hiding.  He had imagined himself noble, prostrate upon cold stone floors and dusty straw.  

    Now, lazing in a bed of rumpled sheets with dust motes dancing in the early morning  sunbeams, he realized how truly unhappy he had been.  A part of his soul, and all of his heart, had been left behind while he ran.  

    He was thankful the person who kept both had cherished them so thoroughly.  

    He was not healed, though.  The lingering traces of pain which assaulted him at unknown intervals, the flinches he could not suppress and the nightmares which haunted him were all proof of this.  But as Watson had cautioned repeatedly, his full recovery would take time.    
      
    He snorted ruefully to himself, finding himself grinning as Watson echoed the sound and turned in his sleep, grumbling something under his breath before huffing into Holmes’ hair.    
      
    Once more laughter threatened, and any lasting doubts which hung over the happiness that burbled in his chest vanished.  

    He was not used to being patient with himself.   But, with Watson’s example to guide him (for who was more patient where it really counted than his beloved?) he knew that his body would once more be restored to him.  

    As if in agreement, Watson snorted again, jerking slightly as he did so before blinking dazed, sleep drugged eyes.  When he turned his head his nose rubbed against Holmes’ neck, and the detective could not refrain any longer and found himself chuckling, shoulders shaking.

    “What?” Watson mumbled, his mustache and lips warm and ticklish against Holmes’ sensitive skin, producing more laughter.  “Do you find something funny?” he asked, and even though he could not know what had set his friend off, his own laughter tinged his words.  “Am I amusing?” he persisted.

    With a quickness Holmes had not expected, (though he probably should have, he  ruefully thought later) Watson was on him, tickling his sides with a ruthlessness bordering on single-mindedness.  Holmes’ sudden undignified squeals devolved into loud cries for mercy interspersed with full body laughs, his thin frame shaking as he struggled half-heartedly to get away.

    “I don’t see anything amusing this morning,” Watson gasped, his fingers unerringly finding Holmes’ most sensitive spots.  He had the other man pinned beneath him, his knees planted on either side of Holmes’ thighs as he tickled him.

    Finally, after several minutes of laughter on both their parts, Watson’s fingers gentled, becoming caresses rather than sharp prods, his hands lingering over warm skin, Holmes’ nightshirt gaping open at the chest.  

     Holmes’ hands roamed over Watson’s shoulders, down his arms and then back again, eyes turning dark in arousal as he pushed himself up to capture Watson’s lips with his own.  

    They kissed languidly, exploring each others’ mouths and bodies. Their nightshirts were quickly discarded, and cheeks which had been flushed with laughter and mirth were now blushing with passion.    
      
    “My dear boy, you have no idea what you do to me,” Watson panted heavily against Holmes’ lips.  

    “Oh, I think I can imagine,” Holmes growled, his hand moving down to the doctor‘s fully aroused member.  “Why Watson, you positively scintillate this morning,” he laughed.

    “I’ll show you scintillation,” Watson replied, and reciprocated Holmes’ action, adjusting them until they were laying facing each other.

    He gently removed Holmes’ hand, moving so that his leg was thrown over Holmes’ hip, and grasped them both.  His strokes were steady and even, their breath harsh in the early hour’s quiet, and when they came it was with matching moans of need and desperation.  

    For several minutes they lay completely still, gasping for breath as their hearts beat rapidly in their chests.  Then Watson turned to regard Holmes and kissed him lazily, almost sloppily.

    “What were you laughing about earlier?” he asked.

    Holmes burst out laughing again, and no amount of prodding could get him to answer.

***

    Mycroft and his three charges arrived shortly after half two that afternoon, their carriage drawn by two sturdy horses whose hooves churned up dust along the lane.  Holmes, along with Watson, Mrs. Everman, Clara and a young man Watson did not recognize, waited patiently on the steps.  

    “Anthony,” Holmes murmured beside him, his voice nearly too soft to be heard above the sounds of the carriage.

    “Beg pardon?” Watson asked, turning startled eyes to his friend, the name seeming to come from nowhere.

    “The young man with Clara is Anthony.  He was one of mine after you were married,” Holmes explained, once more having read Watson’s thoughts with disconcerting accuracy.  

      
    Watson did not have a chance to reply, however, as the carriage came to a halt and a long-limbed, slightly awkward youth stumbled out, followed quickly by two others.  All three were freshly shorn and scrubbed, tugging absently at clothes still stiff with newness.   

    Watson immediately recognized Jasper, the young man who had summoned him so frantically the day of Holmes’ collapse, his red hair and freckles making him appear younger than his companions.  They stood to either side of him, one dark hair and fair skinned, the other brown and plain.  All three regarded the house above them with slightly dazed eyes, taking in the grounds and obvious wealth with an awe that Watson could well appreciate.  

    Behind them the carriage rocked as Mycroft heaved his ponderous bulk down the single step, landing heavily on the gravel with a relieved sigh.  He  adjusted his clothes as he did so, taking in the welcoming party with a single look and his wide face breaking out into a grin at the sight of his brother.

    “Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, and there was no feigned joy in his features or his voice as his gaze swept his younger brother from head to toe.  “You are looking remarkably well!”

    Smiling broadly, Holmes moved from his place beside Watson and made his way to his elder sibling, pausing before embracing him briefly and then stepping back a pace.  For a silent minute both sets of Holmes’ eyebrows performed a strange dance, raising and falling in reply to unspoken comments and rebuttals.  Then, to the doctor’s amazement, Sherlock’s face turned a deep pink, Mycroft’s left eyebrow rising nearly to his hairline.    
   
    This seemed to be the end of the silent exchange, because Mycroft then swept his brother into another hug, holding him tightly for a moment before whispering something into his ear.  Holmes’ blush deepened, but was tempered by the smile which had not faded, and Watson had  a feeling that in a single glance, Mycroft had learned all the two of them had been up to since their arrival.  His own cheeks heated at the thought, and he found himself bowing his head as he tried to master his embarrassment.

    Someone cleared their throat noisily, bringing all attention to Mrs. Everman as she made her way slowly down the stairs, beaming at the brothers as she did so.  Holmes stepped back from Mycroft’s side, his cheeks still flushed, and Watson could not help but be grateful to the elderly housekeeper for saving them all from what could have been an awkward experience.

    “Welcome home, Master Mycroft,” she said, pausing a moment for her own silent exchange of eyebrow raising.  “If you’ve no complaint, I’ll take the young men inside now and get them settled.  Your tea is prepared and set up in the sitting room.”

    “Mrs. Everman, I would be lost without you,” Mycroft sighed, moving forward to wrap his large arms gingerly around her stout frame.  

    There was something infinitely tender in the elder Holmes’ movements, as though he feared to break the small woman who came barely to his chest.  Both brothers wore similar expressions of fondness when he released her, and once more Watson found himself wondering at this heretofore hidden aspect of his friend’s family life.  

    Mrs. Everman patted her hair, smiling at the brothers before turning her attention to the three boys, who had moved themselves several steps away from the trio, watching with round, uncertain eyes.  

    She took in their appearance, inspecting them as closely as any officer had ever inspected Watson’s old regiment, absently straightening a waistcoat or brushing dust off a shoulder.  

    Behind them, watching fondly as any parent, Sherlock Holmes beamed proudly.  Though he would never have children of his own, Watson knew, more so now than ever, that his little army of urchins was as close to offspring as the detective would ever get.

    A pain, gentled now with the passing of time, fluttered briefly in the doctor’s chest before fading.   He and Mary had never truly discussed children. There had always been more pressing matters, such as new drapes for the drawing room, or a new case with Holmes.  Then Holmes had died, and Mary had become sickly, and the matter had perished with her.

    Watching his friend, and seeing the lads standing bravely in the face of unknown challenges ahead, Watson suddenly found himself wondering if his friend would object to his placing a good word to some of his colleagues.  There were many jobs in hospitals, after all, for those who could read and write.  And even some very simple medical positions which could lead to further learning, if any of the children were so inclined.  

    Deciding to bring the matter up later, possibly that night in bed, Watson found himself suddenly alone on the steps, Clara and the young man who had stood beside her leaving him at a quick hand motion from Mrs. Everman.  They did so with such prideful expressions on their face that Watson had to cover his mouth to hide his smile.  

    “I think you lads will do fine,” Mrs. Everman finally said approvingly.  “Clara and Anthony will be able to help if you have any questions, and Anthony will be your main tutor for the foreseeable future.”   She turned once more to the Holmes brothers, raising an eyebrow.

     “Mind your manners and what Mrs. Everman tells you, gentlemen.  Remember, you represent myself and my brother,” Holmes said sternly.

    The boys nodded their heads earnestly as they chorused, “Yes, Mr. Holmes!”

    The little troupe filed back inside, Clara and Anthony leading the way with the newcomers following gratefully, Mrs. Everman bringing up the rear.  She smiled at Watson as she passed him, patting his shoulder as she did so and then closing the door behind her, leaving the three men to finish their reunion.    
      
    “Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted warmly, holding out his hand.

    “Mr. Holmes,” Watson answered cheerfully, making his way down the steps and grasping the large appendage, shaking it heartily.  

    “I see that you have taken excellent care of my brother, thank you,” Mycroft continued, smiling broadly.  There was a knowing gleam to the elder Holmes’ face, and once more Watson felt his own heat up.  “I have not seen Sherlock look so well in a very long time, and I know it is all due to your influence.”  

    Mycroft covered the hand he still held with his other, and the doctor could not deny the earnest thanks he found in the other man’s eyes.

    “Enough, Mycroft,” Holmes chided, his own cheeks colored at the compliment and the things his brother’s speech alluded to.  “Come inside so we can have our tea, I know you have been looking forward to Mrs. Everman’s cakes.”

    “Brother, any man who has tasted of Mrs. Everman’s cakes could not find fault with that,” Mycroft laughed, finally releasing Watson and gesturing for both men to precede him into the house.  “But you are correct, I have been eagerly looking forward to catching up with you two, and it seems there is much to tell.”

    Though the elder Holmes’ tone was teasing, there was an edge to it that promised evasive answers would not be tolerated.  Watson knew Mycroft to be too well bred to mention anything so crass as sex at the table, but he was certain that the new relationship would at least be mentioned in passing.  

***

    Tea passed amicably, the brothers chatting between themselves with Watson interjecting when called for.  He could tell, by the length of pauses, raised eyebrows and subtle changes in tone that the two were having a conversation entirely their own, and for once was quite happy to be excluded.  

    No mention, passing or otherwise, was made of their relationship, and Watson found a tension in his shoulders easing he had not been aware of.  He doubted the matter would be allowed to rest, but for the moment he was content to leave Holmes to deal with his sibling.  

    Afterward, while Mycroft settled into his rooms, which were located near the opposite side of the house than their own, Holmes took his arm and led him outside for a leisurely stroll.  

    They passed several minutes in silence, enjoying the pleasant weather and each other’s presence, before Watson felt comfortable breaking the peace.  

    “I take it that your brother does not mind, but am I to receive a speech in the near future about the proper tending of you?” he asked, keeping his tone deliberately lighthearted despite his honest trepidation.

    Sensing as always the question beneath the question, Holmes squeezed Watson’s arm and steered him over to a well worn stone bench where he sat, bringing Watson with him.  Rose bushes and trees obscured them from prying eyes as Holmes kissed him tenderly, the hand not tucked into the crook of Watson’s elbow cupping the doctor’s cheek.  

    “Mycroft knows that without you I do not function well,” Holmes observed softly once they broke apart.  His hand lingered a moment longer on Watson’s cheek before moving to take his hand.  “He will not threaten or bully you, or ask for details.  He will, in all likelihood, pull you aside for a quiet word to make certain you are comfortable with the situation and that I am treating you well.”

    This last was said with only a tinge of annoyance, and Holmes refused to meet Watson’s gaze, staring instead at their entwined fingers.  

    “You must be completely honest with him,” he urged.  “He will know if you speak false, or if you have any reservations.  Please do not feel that you are obliged to lie in any way or form, for Mycroft is as discreet as any man, and has kept secrets far worse than ours.  If you - If there is something you would like to say, but feel hesitant for fear of my well being, then you should let him know, and he -”

    Watson broke off the speech with a kiss, capturing Holmes’ lips in a fierce, possessive meeting that had the other man stuttering to a stop.  Watson did not allow him to continue when he felt the detective start to pull away, chasing him instead to press his advantage, their tongues twisting and dancing together until they were breathless and had to stop to catch their breaths.

    He rested his forehead against Holmes’, eyes closed as he slowly untangled both his hands and moved them to card through his friend’s hair, cupping the back of his head gently.  

    “Please believe me when I say that if I had any reservations or worries I would not take them to a third party.  I know you, Holmes,” he whispered fiercely, punctuating the words with a tightening of his hands around the black strands entangled in his fingers.  “The good, the bad, and everything in between.  And it is because I know you that I love you!”

    He could feel Holmes’ breath upon his lips, the flutter of his lashes against his cheek, they were pressed so close together.  He could not miss the tiny shudder that ran though him at his words, but he did not comment, moving his hands instead to the bony shoulders, rubbing and soothing the tension which never seemed to leave.  

    “I would be lost without you,” Holmes whispered softly, the words almost too low to be heard despite their proximity.  “Was lost,” he added, reluctantly.  

    “And now you have me again.  I’m not going anywhere, Holmes,” Watson assured, placing another kiss to the soft, warm lips and moving to wrap his arms into a proper hug.  

    “Good,” Holmes sighed, resting his head on Watson’s shoulder, hair brushing the other’s chin.  

    They remained in their secluded alcove for nearly a quarter hour, holding each other and kissing as the urge took them.  Only when the bench began to become uncomfortable did they resume their walk, the air, already filled with the sounds of birds and the warmth of spring, seeming more enjoyable with each step.  

***

    It was nearing five when they returned to the house, cheeks flushed from the sunshine and each other, and were told promptly that dinner would be served at seven and they were to keep out of the way, if they would be so kind.

    Always one to understand and comply with his marching orders, Watson dragged Holmes back to their room for a passionate encounter which left them both breathless and pleasantly sated.  

    After, they had just enough time to wash and dress, eliminating the traces of their lovemaking and becoming presentable once more.  Holmes adjusted Watson’s tie as they finished donning their clothes, running a hand almost absently through his lover’s hair.  Watson returned the gesture, taming the wild mane  easily and then spending several minutes tugging and smoothing the material of his jacket until it met with his approval.  

    “Shall we?” Holmes asked, holding out his arm.

    “With pleasure!” Watson agreed.

    The two of them descended the stairs side by side, the mouth watering smells coming from the kitchen enough to make even Holmes’ stomach growl.  

    “It appears Mrs. Everman has gone out of her way,” Watson observed when they entered the dinning room, eyebrows raised at the sight before him.

    The table was set elegantly and far more formally than any of their previous meals.  Flowers and settings of fine china accented by elegant silverware marked their places, and for a moment the two men simply stood and admired the view.

    “Yes, well, Mycroft always did like a bit of pomp,” Holmes finally sniffed.  

    “It’s tradition!” Mrs. Everman’s voice called from the other room, followed a moment later by the woman herself, carrying a large covered dish.  “It’s only one night, Mr. Holmes, and you enjoy it as much as your brother,” she chided.  

    “You know me too well, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes agreed easily, taking the dish from her and placing it near the head of the table.  

    “As well she should, brother,” Mycroft greeted from the doorway, making his way slowly over to the table, his eyes twinkling as his lips quirked appreciatively.  “Mrs. Everman, it looks marvelous!” he enthused, bending down to kiss a wrinkled cheek.  “You’ve outdone yourself!”

    “Oh, stop, you,” she laughed, blushing.  “Sit down, gentlemen, and dinner will be out shortly!”

    She hurried from the room, cheeks still tinged pink and her mouth turned up in merriment, as the men followed instructions and took their seats.  

    Mycroft sat at the head of the table with Holmes to his right and Watson to his left, all three settling easily and without discussion.  The elder Holmes took in their appearance and raised a single eyebrow, his smile growing into what on any other man might be called “naughty.”  Watson felt his cheeks flush, though he had been certain there was no trace of their previous activities on their person or appearance.

    “I must say, Sherlock, that fresh air agrees remarkably with you!  Why, you seem positively glowing tonight!” was all Mycroft said.  

    Holmes glared, the blush slowly creeping across his cheeks and down his neck the only sign that he was as embarrassed as Watson.  

    “Thank you, brother.  In all honesty I have never felt so invigorated!  Perhaps you should attempt to gain some fresh air yourself while you are here.”

    Watson choked on the mouthful of wine he had been drinking, nearly spitting it across the table and onto the offender, who merely turned an innocent expression his way.

    “I say, Doctor, are you all right?” Mycroft asked, patting his back helpfully until he was able to regain his breath.  

    “Yes, sorry, I’m fine,” Watson coughed, wiping his mouth delicately with his napkin as he attempted to regain his composure.   “Went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

    Sherlock’s grunt as his boot connected with his shin was quite satisfying, and he ignored the little smirk playing about Mycroft’s lips as Holmes scowled.  

    “Tell me, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, once he was certain Watson was recovered, “how fare the paths this year?  I haven’t been out to inspect them myself in years, but Mrs. Everman told me you have been making use of them quite frequently.”

    If Watson had not known him he never would have noticed the slight hesitation of his friend’s answer, or the way his eyes darkened as he graced his brother with a cheerful smile.  

    “They are well tended, Mycroft.  Just the other day Watson and I took the horses for a ride down to the pond and found the way terrifically scenic.  The good doctor is always after me to exercise more and has been having his way with me quite frequently recently, haven’t you, Watson?”

    This time Watson was certain he left a bruise with the force of his kick to Holmes’ shin, but he managed to smile innocently even as he felt heat rush to his cheeks once more.  Damn his Scottish complexion!

    “Yes, I have,” Watson replied easily, happy that his voice sounded perfectly normal.  “Although I think that perhaps for the next few days we may have to relent on the exercise for a bit, as I wouldn’t want to strain your endurance.  Fresh air is marvelous for recovery, but so is plenty of quiet.”

    Holmes’ eyes widened in alarm, and Mycroft was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit, his pudgy cheeks turning red as he turned his head and attempted to cover the sounds with his fist.

    “Are you all right?” Watson asked, eyes glinting with mischief as he returned Mycroft’s earlier gesture and patted his back.  

    “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Mycroft managed to gasp out, tears escaping his eyes as he continued to cough, the fit seeming to become worse whenever he chanced to glance at his brother’s annoyed countenance.  “Dear me, I do hope there isn’t anything catching,“ he finally managed to say, the fit seeming to have passed.  “I wouldn’t wish to try your patience, Doctor.  Goodness knows that one Holmes under your care is quite enough!”

    “Yes, Mycroft, I agree.”  Holmes’ voice was so patently filled with false sympathy that Watson had to fight the urge to kick him again.  “Poor Watson is stuck with me for probably the rest of his life, and one Holmes is enough for any man.”

    “True, true,” Mycroft agreed, and something about this expression softened, the teasing tone of his voice exchanged for something far more gentle.  “Well, I dare say that if any man is equipped to deal with Sherlock it would be you, Doctor Watson. I know he’s in the best of hands, and it does put my mind to rest knowing you are there for him.”

    Watson swallowed hard, hoping his expression was sufficiently neutral to continue the ruse that the conversation in any way resembled one of innocence and not matters considered illegal.

    “I do my best,” was all he managed to get out before Mrs. Everman bustled through the door, followed by several of the servants, each bearing a dish.

    “Ahh!  Dinner!” Mycroft exclaimed, clapping his hands as the table was slowly ladened down, the smell of roast chicken filling the room.  

    “Enjoy the meal, gentlemen,” Mrs. Everman urged, pausing long enough to pat Mycroft’s shoulder as she passed.  

    All three turned their attention to the food before them, even Holmes filling his plate to a respectable degree.  Wine was poured and, after each glass was topped, Mycroft rose with more grace than one would expect from such a cumbrous frame.  He lifted his glass, the other two diners following suit.  

    “Too seldom has this table graced more than myself and my work associates.  I am thankful that tonight not only is my brother here to join me in what I’m certain is going to be a fabulous meal, but that you are as well, Doctor Watson.  Welcome to the family, and may there be many more such meals to come!”

    “Hear, hear!” both men chorused, all three touching their glasses together before sitting down once more.

    It was, as Mycroft predicted, a wonderful meal.

***

      After each man had eaten more than his fill they retried to the library as had become habit.  Brandy in hand, they sat comfortably around the small fire which had been lit, as the evenings continued to hold a chill despite the daytime’s warmth.  

    Watson resumed his habitual chair, Mycroft sitting easily opposite him while Holmes stretched out upon the settee.   For an hour they talked of the Irregulars, both past and present, and their plans for the young urchins.  Watson brought up his own ideas of getting them positions in hospitals, which were greeted with great enthusiasm by both brothers.  He was sure his grin was about to split his face at Holmes’ look of near adoration, and he was certain it was only Mycroft’s presence which prevented the other from kissing him near senseless in that moment.  

    After the situation of Holmes’ little army had been thoroughly discussed, Sherlock entertained his brother with a masterfully edited version of his recovery since arriving at the estate, concluding with his strange episode two nights previous.  

    He spoke of the event in a matter-of-fact way, as though such things were commonplace, or at least not completely unheard of, and Mycroft’s reaction only solidified Watson’s belief that this was so.  

    The elder Holmes merely nodded his head, his gaze contemplative as his shrewd eyes darted from his brother to Watson and back again.  

    “I am quite relieved to hear that you have found the peace and quiet that you needed, brother,” Mycroft murmured, steepling his fingers in a manner reminiscent of the detective.  “I can see, however, that you are still weary.  Why don’t you head on up to bed while I have a word with the doctor here?  I promise not to keep him too long.”

    The warmth he had been experiencing for the better part of the night vanished, leaving in its place a cold ball of nauseous expectation.  Though he had been expecting it, and Holmes had warned him, he still found himself suddenly anxious about being left alone with Mycroft Holmes.  

    Sherlock, sensing his wariness, stood easily with a mighty yawn and an exaggerated stretch of his arms.  He arched his back as he did so, as though working out a kink, and when he stood upright once more had somehow made his way beside Watson’s chair.  

    “I am a bit more tired than I thought,” Holmes agreed pleasantly, resting his hand on Watson’s shoulder and squeezing gently.   “Watson here is constantly trying to get me into bed.  Please do not keep him too long, brother,” he added, leaving the room before Watson could get over the shock of his friend’s words and do him harm.

    Watson gaped after Holmes’ back, his face near scarlet with mortification, though he knew full well that the words should have sounded perfectly innocent.  When he finally had enough courage to face back to Mycroft, he found the other man laughing silently at him.  

    “More brandy, Doctor?” he asked cheerfully.

    “God, yes,” Watson breathed, clambering to his feet to pour himself another drink and topping off Mycroft’s glass before sinking back down into his chair.  

    If he had been alone he may very well have gulped down the drink and then poured another.  As it was he contended himself with sipping the drink carefully, his full concentration on the glass in his hand as he waited for Mycroft to speak.  

    He did not wait long.

    “My brother is not the only one weary today, Doctor, so I won’t keep you long,” Mycroft assured him, taking a sip of his own drink before resting his chin in his hand, his gaze thoughtful as he watched Watson opposite him.  

    “Yes, you must be quite exhausted after your trip,” Watson agreed, clearing his throat nervously.  

    “Well, much as we may like to think we have progressed in this day and age, I fear that traveling is still a bit of an endeavor, especially with three lively young lads in tow.  But no matter,”  Mycroft continued, waving away his fatigue.  “I wish to speak with you about my brother, and transparent though my wishes may be, I do believe he agrees that it is something that must be got out of the way.”

    Watson cleared his throat again and took another sip of his brandy, motioning for Mycroft to continue.  He didn’t trust his voice at the moment, afraid it would give away his true state of nervousness.

    “I am aware of the true nature of your relationship,” Mycroft began, his voice much softer than it usually was and his gaze fastened on the fire.  “I assure you I am perfectly happy for both of you, and wish you only the best.  However, I believe that there are a few things that you may need to know for the future, and since I doubt very much my brother will divulge them to you willingly, I fear it falls to me to do so.”

    Watson quickly looked up, his attention immediately caught.  He had not expected the conversation to take such a turn, and now that it had he wasn’t certain where exactly Mycroft would go with it.  

    “Our parents,” Mycroft said, and the words were tinged with the barest hints of bitterness, his lips pursed as though in distaste.  “Sherlock once remarked to you that there is art in our blood, and I fear that it manifests in some peculiar ways.  Our mother suffered such bouts as Sherlock experienced the other night, and our father… He was not quite certain how to deal with such things.  I fear that our upbringing was a bit unconventional,” he sighed, smiling in the manner of one who knows what they are saying is an understatement.  

    “Mr. Holmes,” Watson interrupted, suddenly realizing where the other was going with his speech and wishing to stop before he could say something which would trigger Watson’s temper.  “I assure you, I know Sherlock better than most anyone, the good and the bad.  I do not care what his peculiar habits are, or why he developed him.  I love him, quite simply because he is who he is, and I would not change him for the world.”  Watson swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry now that the words were out and he could not take them back.  

    When Mycroft nodded for him to continue, his expression one of delighted intrigue and not of shock, Watson took a deep breath and pressed on.

    “The only things I would like to know about are the - the episodes, for lack of a better term, which he suffered the other night.  I fear for his health, you understand, and although you and the rest of the household seem to find nothing remarkable about them, in all the years I have known him he has never suffered such a one in my sight.  Please, Mycroft.  I would very much like to know what happened.”

    The fire popped loudly in the sudden quiet of the room, both men going over Watson’s impassioned speech in their mind until Mycroft sat a bit straighter and took a deep breath, as though preparing for an unpleasant task.  Watson, accordingly, took a bracing sip of his brandy and prepared for whatever might  be revealed.

    “As you said, Doctor, you know my brother better than anyone, save perhaps myself and Mrs. Everman, who very nearly raised him,” Mycroft began, staring thoughtfully into the fire.  “Many would call him, and perhaps myself, as well, cold and unfeeling.  You know that to be patently untrue.  If anything, my brother feels things too deeply, and thus has always been the case.  Our mother was much the same way.  She was a quiet, well mannered woman, who loved music, painting and nature.  It is from her side of the family that Sherlock gets his love for the violin, and also, the strange episodes.”

    Mycroft paused in his telling, taking a sip of his drink before looking at Watson for the first time.

    “I, too, inherited the affliction, though mine manifests in different ways. I tell you this in strictest confidence, Doctor,” he continued, suddenly very serious.  At Watson’s nod, he continued.  “I do not hear music, as Sherlock does and mother did.  I see the world in numbers and patterns, and though I cannot say for certain, I believe the two conditions are similar enough that I can give you some small insight into what sets them off.  For me, personally, it tends to be a matter of too much information and stress.  When my head feels too full of information, or I receive a great shock, the world tends to shift, and quite beyond my ability to control it, I suddenly perceive everything around me in an abstract, patterned way.  I don’t believe I can describe it better, though I wish I could.  As for Sherlock…”

    “Yes?” Watson prompted after nearly a minute of silence fell between them.

    “As for Sherlock,” Mycroft resumed, finishing off his drink and twirling the glass between his hands.  “He tends to suffer the most after a great shock or change in his life.  When our mother died, he complained of hearing the music for nearly three days.  After-”  

    He stopped abruptly, biting his lip in an uncharacteristic display of concern.

    “After I was married,” Watson prompted softly, earning a surprised look, followed by a sad, tight smile.  

    “Yes.  After you were married, he had several such lapses.  But not all the events were traumatic, Doctor,” Mycroft assured, suddenly leaning forward in his earnestness.  “When he was but five years old and heard the violin for the first time, really heard it, he walked around in a daze for nearly a week.  And later, after his first boxing match that he won, he again lost himself for a few hours.”

    Here Mycroft paused, as though debating with himself, before he took a deep breath and said, “I believe that it was your change in relationship which brought about the episode.  For the first time in his life my brother experienced love, true, unconditioned, passionate love, and it overwhelmed him for a short time.”  

    Watson found himself blushing again and forced himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze, knowing the other man was reading a hundred things in his expression and posture that even he was not aware of.  He welcomed the gaze, embarrassed as it made him, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

    “You are the best thing that has ever happened to him, Doctor.  I am thankful you two have found each other again.”  

    Watson swallowed, suddenly overcome by emotion, for both the man he loved and the man before him, accepting their relationship and everything they were despite what society thought.  

    “I believe that it is time we headed up to our respective beds,” Mycroft prompted gently, standing with a bit of effort and placing his glass on the sideboard.  “Good night, Doctor Watson.”

    “Good night, Mr. Holmes,” Watson answered, pushing himself to his feet and placing his glass beside Mycroft’s, following the other man out of the library.  

    They went their separate ways at the top of the stairs, bidding each other good night once more, and when Watson opened the door to his room he was pleasantly surprised to find Holmes still awake, though in his dressing gown and under the covers.  He was reading by candlelight the manuscript Watson had labored over the days previous, the room dim and mostly in shadow.  

    “You survived,” he observed, taking in Watson’s appearance with a single glance.

    “I did,” Watson agreed, moving to take the sheaves of paper from his hands and bending to kiss him passionately.  

    He could taste a hint of the toothpowder Holmes favored, smell traces of soap on his skin.  He breathed deep, closing his eyes as he did so and moving his lips from Holmes’ mouth to his jaw line, working his way back to his ear.  

    “Are you all right?” Holmes asked softly, turning his head as he did so to allow better access to Watson’s advances.  

    “I’m wonderful,” Watson breathed into his ear, sending a shudder down Holmes’ slender frame.  

    “Not that I’m objecting,” Holmes murmured as Watson placed the manuscript on the bedside table blindly before running his hand through Holmes’ hair.  “But I’m not certain I’m comfortable with you being this amorous after talking with my brother.”

    The comment was so unexpected, and yet so very Holmes, that Watson found himself laughing helplessly, resting his head on Holmes’ shoulder.  

    “Don’t ever change, Holmes!” he gasped out, taking in Holmes’ confused smile and cupping his face with his hands, trying to regain control of his mirth.  “I love you, every bit of you, and don’t you dare change a thing!”

    “Not even the indoor target practice?” Holmes asked innocently, earning another hearty laugh.  

    “Not even that!” Watson agreed.  He kissed him again, deeply, passionately, and with everything he possessed.  “I love you,” he breathed against Holmes’ lips.

    “And I, you.”

    There was no more talk as Watson undressed, folding his clothes precisely and laying them upon the chair and the desk so they did not wrinkle.  His gaze did not leave Holmes as the detective stripped himself of his nightshirt, casting it to the floor in a manner that at any other time would have had Watson rolling his eyes.

    Instead, all he could think of was the feel of Holmes’ skin beneath his, the feel of his friend and lover beside him.  When he climbed into the bed a few moments later, naked, he was granted his wish.

    He slid his hands over Holmes’ chest, arms and shoulders. He cupped his testicles delicately, and ran his fingers feather light over his erect manhood.  He sucked on his nipples and bit lightly on his stomach, until Holmes was nearly whimpering with need.    
Only then did he move, to whisper into the other’s ear, “I want you to take me tonight.”

    Holmes gasped, startled and aroused beyond words.  He nodded wordlessly, watching as Watson slipped out of the bed to make his way unsteadily to his valise, retrieving the bottle of oil once more.  His manhood bobbed against his stomach as he walked, already leaking with his arousal, and when he climbed back into the bed he was slightly disconcerted to find that he was shaking.

    “What - I mean, how -” Holmes asked, suddenly shy and hesitant.  

    “Remember what I did for you?” Watson asked, mouthing Holmes’ neck as he handed him the bottle.  “Coat your fingers, and insert them gently, one at a time, into me.  When I am prepared, then you can slide your cock into me.”

    Holmes’ breath caught at Watson’s language, his eyes going dark at the image his words conjured.  

    “Let me know if I hurt you,” he whispered, his hands shaking slightly as he unstoppered the bottle and poured a small amount into his hand, placing the bottle on the bedside table for easy access and then moving so that he lay on top of Watson.

    They kissed for several minutes before Watson gently guided Holmes slicked hand down to his groin, and then further, until his fingers caressed his opening.  Hesitantly, Holmes rubbed his finger over the puckered entrance before daring to push the digit inside.  Watson sighed and pushed against the finger, desire filling him until he thought he would go mad with it.

    For several minutes Holmes worked fist one, then two fingers, into Watson’s body, scissoring them at Watson’s instructions and exploring his lover with the single mindedness which made him so formidable.  He paused only briefly to add more oil before adding a third finger, swallowing Watson’s cries with his mouth as they kissed, Watson running his hands over Holmes’ body, pressing against the fingers wantonly.

    “I’m ready,” he gasped, clumsily grabbing the bottle and spilling a good portion onto the sheets as he coated his hand, which he then moved to Holmes’ manhood, stroking it firmly and earning a deep moan.

    “Watson, if you wish me to take you tonight then I advise you to stop!” Holmes growled, earning a breathless laugh as Watson pushed and guided Holmes until he was positioned.

    “Just go slowly,” he advised, smiling into Holmes eyes as he felt the other man start to push in.  

    Holmes bit his lip as he slowly sank into Watson’s body, unable to take his eyes away from Watson’s face, searching for any signs of discomfort and pausing at the tightening of his brow.  

    They breathed deeply together, Holmes bending down to kiss Watson’s jaw, his cheek, and then his neck.  Slowly he pushed further in, until he was completely seated in the other man, and the two of them stilled as they struggled to control their passion.

    “You can move now,” Watson urged, lifting his hips in silent appeal.

    It had been a very long time since the last time he had done this, but his body remembered the feeling of another man inside it, and the fullness of Holmes’ manhood stretched him in ways which bordered on painful.  Still, as Holmes tentatively withdrew and then pushed back in, Watson thought he had never known such bliss.   

    Slowly they found their rhythm, Holmes running a hand from Watson’s chest to his member.  He grasped it in a loose grip, stroking in time to his thrusts, until Watson could feel the tingle in his back and testicles which signaled his release was near.  

    Both men had been fairly silent throughout their lovemaking, moaning softly and gasping each other’s names as their passion mounted.  Now, as Watson felt his little death approach, he heard words tumble from his mouth that at any other time he would be embarrassed by.

    “God, Holmes, love you, love you so much, God, going to - need you, love you, Holmes!”  

    “Watson!” Holmes gasped, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder, his rhythm faltering as his own release approached.  

    The thought of Holmes coming inside of him was enough to send Watson over the edge, gasping and trembling as his release overtook him, his eyes clenched tight in the pleasure/pain of it.

    A moment later he felt Holmes still, his member pulsing inside him, warmth filling his passage as he deliberately squeezed his internal muscles.  Holmes gasped, nearly whimpering, and rested his forehead on Watson’s shoulder, chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

    Watson gentled him through the climax, his own breaths labored as he stroked Holmes’ sweat covered back, running his hands from shoulder to buttock and back again.  When his lover’s softened member finally slipped out of him, both men shuddered, clinging to each other tightly.

    “It’s all right,” Watson soothed, resting one hand on Holmes’ back and running the other through his hair.  “You were amazing, Holmes.  Thank you.”

    “No, Watson, thank you,” Holmes murmured, shifting so that he no longer rested his weight completely on the man beneath him,  but lay to the side, resting his arm and leg over Watson’s and his head on Watson’s shoulder.  “Thank you.”

    Watson kissed the top of his head, still struggling to catch his breath, and moved the arm that was trapped under Holmes’ to wrap it around his side.  

    “We should get cleaned up,” he murmured sleepily, struggling to keep his eyes open against the post-coital lethargy.  

    He could feel a wetness between his legs which he knew would be uncomfortable come morning, and there was a soreness in his nether region that he knew he would savor for several days to come.  But at the moment, with Holmes wrapped around him, he could not remember a time when he was happier.

    “I love you,” Holmes whispered softly, slurring the words in his exhaustion.  

    “I love you, too,” Watson answered, trying to keep the thickness from his voice.  

    They remained tangled together for several more minutes before Holmes finally dragged himself away, retrieving the cloth from the wash basin and tenderly cleaning Watson first before attending to himself.  After, he blew out the candle and crawled back under the covers, snuffling happily as they settled down for sleep.

    “Watson?” he asked, and it was only the tone of consternation in his voice that brought the doctor back from the edge of sleep.

    “Yes?” he mumbled.

    “I’m never going to be able to smell a bouquet again without thinking of this.”

    They fell asleep between one breath of laughter and the next.  

***  
      
    The days at the estate fell into a regular pattern after Mycroft’s arrival.  Holmes and Watson would enjoy breakfast together, as had become their habit, and then spend the morning riding or walking around the grounds.  When not lingering about the house, they would head  into town on short excursions.  Often they returned in time for tea, sometimes disheveled, sometimes burdened down with packages, but always in cheerful moods, and Mycroft would join them for their repast.  

    Updates on the Irregulars’ training were included in these interludes, with Holmes beaming proud as any father at the progress being made.  

    Though the three lads were rarely seen around the estate, the few glimpses Watson had caught had shown him they were happy, healthy, and more than willing to learn the trade they were being groomed for.  These small glances into a life Watson had never dreamed possible for the children never failed to lighten his heart, and several times he found himself nearly choked with emotion when he considered all his friend had done for them.  

    When he was not at Holmes’ side Watson found himself writing once more, some days spending an entire afternoon holed up in the rooms, the sound of pen against paper the only disturbance to the quiet.  Inevitably, while the doctor was thus preoccupied, Holmes would be out causing mischief.  

    The Exploding Goose, as the event came to be called, was only a precursor to numerous cooking experiments.  With the help of the staff, Mrs. Everman amongst them, and sometimes with Mycroft’s assistance, it soon became common for small explosions and various smells to float up through the open window on a gentle breeze.  

    Watson considered the time spent at Chichester to be among some of his best.  

    Holmes’ recovery continued with minor setbacks, as was to be expected.  Days would pass when he seemed as fit and hale as ever, only to be accompanied by nights of  terrible dreams and bouts of summer sickness.  His exhaustion slowly faded, until naps were no longer required for him to function, and he would pass entire days filled with energy before winding down like a clock the next day.   

    His wariness around large crowds faded, though sudden movements still startled him, and Watson had learned to wake him gently, lest he receive a flailing fist for his efforts.  

    After two weeks at the estate, Mycroft departed reluctantly, his own health seeming renewed by the rest and time with family.  There had been no tearful goodbyes or prolonged exchanges of sentiment, as Watson had come to expect from the brothers.  They had seen him off at the station, Sherlock embracing the larger man briefly before watching board and then suggesting lunch at a café.  

    When their own time to depart arrived, three months after their arrival at Chichester, both men seemed torn between a longing for their familiar abode and reluctance to leave the acceptance and care of those who had become such an everyday part of their lives.  

    As they stood upon the steps to the house, waiting for their luggage and packages to be loaded onto the waiting carriage, they were surrounded by what appeared to be the entire household.

    The young men Watson had played rugby with teased him gently about coming back for another go, while the young maids waited their turn to give him a quick bob as they dabbed at their eyes and then scurried back inside.  

    When Clara handed him a rose, smiling shyly up at him, he found himself brushing at his own eyes as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

    “Watch out for him, Doctor,” she whispered softly, looking briefly to Holmes, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye as he nodded to whatever the young man before him was saying.  “You’s always done good for him, moreso lately than ever, but he needs a bit of a keeper, if you don’t mind my saying.”

    He laughed at her cheek and smiled down at her.

    “I promise, Clara, that I will do everything within my power to keep him safe and well.  You take care of yourself,” he admonished as she turned to go.

    “Always, Doctor!” she giggled, pausing briefly to wave over her shoulder before departing, having already presented Holmes with his own rose and said her farewell.

    Finally, with the last boxes having been secured and the driver waiting patiently for the two men, they stood alone with Mrs. Everman, who was wiping her eyes with her apron unashamedly, one arm around Holmes’ waist.

    The detective held her close to him, resting his chin on her head as he pulled her into a possessive hug.  Something caught in Watson’s throat at the sight, forcing him to turn his attention to one last view of the grounds in an attempt to give them some privacy.  

    “Don’t you dare wait so long to come back, young man,” Mrs. Everman was whispering, her voice quavering slightly.  “Took nearly half my years away when you showed near dead last time, and then not a word after you up and left!  If not for Mrs. Hudson’s telegram I wouldn’t have known where you were or that you still- still lived!”

    “Hush, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes soothed absently.  Then the woman’s words seemed to catch up to him at the same time as Watson comprehended what had been said, and they both turned accusing eyes her way.  “What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson telegrammed you?”

    “Of course she did, you silly thing!” Mrs. Everman chided, regaining some of her composure as she glared up at the detective.  “Why, she was so distraught after you - after you disappeared that Mycroft feared for her health, and sent her here to recuperate for a few weeks.  We became fast friends, of course, she’s a marvelous lady!”

    The two men shared a look of dawning horror as comprehension slowly set in.

    “You - you’ve been in contact with Mrs. Hudson?  All this time we’ve been here?” Watson asked, as hope bloomed in his chest.  Perhaps Baker Street would be more welcoming than he had thought!

    “Of course I have, Doctor,” Mrs. Everman replied primly.  Her eyes darted to the waiting carriage driver, who was picking his nose and gazing at the sky in a bored fashion, before continuing.  “She’s well aware of the situation and has made certain your rooms are just as they should be for your return.  Honestly, gentlemen,” she sighed, wiping her eyes again to remove any traces of her earlier tears, now that she had control of herself.  “She was quite upset that it took you so long to find your way, you know.”

    Holmes’ eyes widened, bearing a distinct resemblance to a nighttime creature caught in unexpected lantern light.  

    “She was?” he asked softly, voice breaking on the last word.

    “Very,” Mrs. Everman assured.  “I’m certain she’ll have more to say when you get home.”

    “I’m certain she will,” Holmes sighed, wincing in anticipation.  

    “Enough, you,” Mrs. Everman chastised, pulling Holmes closer for one final hug before pushing him gently away.  “The two of you have to be going now, lest you miss your train.  I expect to see you for Christmas, the both of you!”

    “Of course!” Watson promised before Holmes could open his mouth.  “And, if Mrs. Hudson has no prior engagement, perhaps she can come with us.”  
      
    He tried not to smile at Holmes’ look of horror, though he doubted he was successful as a moment later stout arms were wrapped around him in a fierce hug.

    “You take care of that leg, Doctor,” Mrs. Everman said as she released him, sniffing carefully as a few tears managed to make their way past her control.  “And take care of yourself.  My Sherlock would be lost without you,” she added in a whisper meant for his ears only as she pulled him back and squeezed him once more.

    “And I, him,” Watson assured, returning the hug for all he was worth.  “I look forward to seeing you again, Mrs. Everman.”

    There was a moment of stillness as all three prepared to go their ways, then Mrs. Everman was breaking the hold and shooing them both toward the carriage.  

    “Off with you now, and take care!” she called as they dutifully climbed into the waiting conveyance.  The driver, happy to finally be on his way, clambered into his seat with haste.   “Send me a telegram when you get home, young man!  I mean it, Mr. Holmes!”

    “I’ll make sure it’s done!” Watson called as the carriage began to move.

    They waved their farewells until they had moved out of sight, then slowly sank back into their seats with weary sighs.

    They were heading home.

***

    “Where did we acquire so many things?” Holmes grumbled as he stumbled up the steps with the last box, sweat sliding down his cheek from his temple as he finally deposited his burden in the sitting room.  

    He leant against the doorjamb, panting, as he watched Watson rummage around one of the boxes and withdraw several books, looking as composed and put together as always. He wasn’t even sweating, Holmes thought bitterly.

    “On the many excursions you insisted on,” Watson replied blandly, casting his friend an amused stare as he arranged the books easily onto one of the shelves.  “I don’t think we managed to travel into town without picking something up.  Honestly, Holmes, you were like a child in a sweet shop!”

    “Yes, well, half of these are yours,” Holmes sighed, kicking the box out of his way as he finally closed the door and moved to collapse onto the settee, closing his eyes as he did so.  

    Gladstone, snuffling happily around the room as he reacquainted himself with Baker Street, whined piteously when he came upon his empty food dish.

    “No,” Watson told him absently.  “You ate on the train, boy.”

    “Why are neither of you bothered by this damnable heat?” Holmes burst out, wiping sweat from his forehead in irritation.  

    “You know perfectly well why,” Watson said calmly, opening another box and retrieving a set of fragile teacups which were supposed to be a gift to their landlady.  “If you’re that uncomfortable, Holmes, take a cool bath.  You could use one, anyway.”

    Holmes snorted, taking a guarded sniff of his arm as he did so.  Perhaps Watson was right and some time soaking in temperate water would do him good.  

    “Very well, if you insist,” he sighed, grinning at the doctor’s rolled eyes.  “Care to join me?”

    “Holmes,” Watson warned, finally placing the tea cups to the side of the table for later wrapping.  “Mrs. Hudson could return any moment, we don’t want to - even if she knows, we should still be circumspect.”

    This time Holmes’ sigh was much more real, his shoulders sagging.  

    “Yes, I know,” he murmured, pushing himself to stand wearily.  “I’ll be in the bath if you need me, probably for the next several hours if this blasted heat doesn’t let up.”

    “It’s August in London, Holmes,” Watson laughed, finally taking pity on the other man and cupping his face in his hands as he leaned in for a brief kiss.  “I doubt it’s going to let up any  time soon.”

    Holmes scowled at him even as he leaned in for a second kiss, nipping lightly at Watson’s lip in irritation.  

    “Go cool off,” Watson ordered, removing his hands to gently push Holmes in the direction of the bathroom.  “You’ll feel better in clean clothes and a little relief.”

    “Thank you, Watson,” Holmes murmured, wasting no more time as he began to shed his clothes, leaving a trail of garments until he was down to his smallclothes and starting the water.  

    When he finally sank up to his neck the relief was almost instantaneous.  He allowed himself the luxury of simply laying back against the rim of the tub, dribbling water over his face and into his hair as he took several deep breaths.  

    The train ride had been uneventful, as had their cab right back to Baker Street.  The temperature difference, however, had taken him by surprise, much to Watson’s amusement, and though they had only had six boxes and their two bags to bring in, it had felt much more.  

    Gladstone had been as good tempered as ever, taking the excursion in stride and behaving himself the entire journey.  He had taken care of his business before departing Chichester, and so no accidents had caused undue embarrassment or interrupted their time together.

    Whereas the first train journey had been fraught with too many things unspoken and Holmes’ own fear, the return had been companionable and peaceful, the two of them chatting easily before lapsing into silent contemplation of the scenic view passing outside their windows.  

    Uncertain of the reception they would receive, they had entered Baker Street cautiously, calling their presence into the unusual silence.  A small maid they had never seen before had greeted them cheerfully, poking her head out of the kitchen.

    “Hello!” she had exclaimed, quickly moving to greet them and wiping her hands on her apron.  “Mrs. Hudson has gone to the market with Rachel but should be back soon.  I’m Emily!”

    “Hello, Emily,” Watson had answered, smiling charmingly.  “When did you start?”

    “Oh, a few weeks ago,” Emily answered airily, waving away the matter as little concern.  “I’m making dinner now, it should be ready at about half seven, if that’s all right with you gentlemen?”

    “Yes, thank you,” Holmes mumbled, hefting the box he held a bit higher and pushing his way past the two to make his way upstairs.  “Nice meeting you,” he called, leaving any other social niceties for Watson to deal with.  

    His first glimpse of their sitting room had felt very much like the first time he had stepped through the door after his three year absence.   The floors had been swept, his chemical table tidied, the books put away, and the papers disposed of.  If not for the general clutter, the rooms would have looked respectable enough for any pair of bachelors living on their own, and certainly was acceptable enough for his practice, when he would resume it again.

    He had stood there for a long minute, drinking in the sight of the familiar surroundings, before Watson’s tread on the stairs reminded him that he was blocking the door.

    Gladstone had entered the room a moment before Watson, who deposited his own box on the floor with a scowl at Holmes for his rudeness.  

    “Come on, then,” was all he said, however.  “We still have a few more things to bring up.”

    Now, feeling the tension of the day drain from his body, Holmes felt as though he could breathe properly for the first time since that morning’s tearful goodbyes.  He listened to the dim sounds of Watson putting the flat back in order, of boxes being relegated to either storage or rubbish, and then finally silence as his friend and lover finally settled down.  

    “Holmes!  If you haven’t drowned in there, you may wish to come out,” Watson called, and Holmes started guiltily from what had nearly become a doze, splashing water over the sides of the tub.

    “I’ll be out in a moment!” he called back, dunking his head under the water before a response could be given and scrubbing his hair thoroughly.  

    He washed quickly and then, towel wrapped about his waist, as he had forgotten to bring any clothes with him into the bathroom, made his way out into the sitting room.    
Watson was standing just in the entrance of his bedroom, eyeing the door with a peculiar smile playing about his lips.

    “Watson?” Holmes asked, making his way over to see what had so intrigued the other.

    He stopped as soon as he was able to take in the room beyond, his mouth falling open in his surprise.  Not only had the room been tidied, but a new bed had been installed in their absence, this one twice the size of the last and covered with a quilt that he was certain he had glimpsed in Mrs. Hudson’s room the few times he had approached her there.  

    New locks had been placed on the door, and thick drapes covered the windows, guaranteeing no light would be allowed to enter or escape the room.  

    “The same has been done to my room,” Watson said softly, his gaze riveted on the bed.  “And when I checked the dressers, there’s a drawer empty in each.”

    “This must be what Mrs. Everman was alluding to this morning, when she mentioned our rooms being made as they should.”  Holmes swallowed as his gaze swept the room once more.  “I must say, I could not have hoped for better.”

    “I know,” Watson whispered.  He leaned over and kissed Holmes chastely on the cheek, his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply of his scent.  “You had best get dressed, it wouldn’t do to have all this hard work go to waste, would it?”

    “No, no it wouldn’t,” Holmes agreed absently.  He paused as he entered the room, smelling fresh linen and flowers from the open window.  “We’re truly home, aren’t we, Watson?”

    “Yes, we are,” Watson agreed.  

    He closed the door quietly behind him as he left Holmes to dress, and it was in something close to a daze that the detective did so.  

***

    Mrs. Hudson returned to Baker Street shortly before five, immediately making her way up the stairs to greet her tenants when alerted they had returned early.  The new girl, Emily, was truly a gem, smiling cheerfully as she described the men’s apparent health and all the boxes they had brought back with them.  The twinkle in her eyes as she mentioned how Mr. Holmes had thrown his clothes all about the room had just reaffirmed her decision to fire the last girls and hire new ones.  

    After all, Mr. Holmes dealt with such sensitive matters, it would not do to have a girl who could not be circumspect when the situation called for.  Rachel, of course, had been one of the detective’s little urchins not too many years ago, and so of course could be trusted in all matters.  

    When she knocked on the door to the sitting room, tea tray held easily in her hands, she felt an unexpected flutter in her stomach as Dr. Watson opened the door, smiling brightly down at her as he motioned her in.

    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted brightly, taking the tray from her hands and setting it on the table.  “You look lovely as always!”

    “Thank you,” she returned, smiling as her eyes scanned the room quickly for her other tenant.  She froze for just a moment when her eyes fell upon the small picture which had been placed on the mantel, the doctor and his deceased wife smiling happily back at her, before she turned her attention back to the man before her.  “Has Mr. Holmes managed to drown himself in the bath yet, or is he saving that for one of his experiments?”

    “You only wish, Nanny!”

    She could not keep the smile from her face as she turned to see Mr. Holmes emerge from his room,  looking nothing like the sickly man which had departed several months before.  Dressed impeccably in a summer suit of white linen, his face freshly shaved and his hair tamed, he appeared the very definition of a gentleman.  His eyes, which were usually filled with teasing good humor, seemed to sparkle, and his smile was more genuine than any she had seen in a very long time.  

    “I must say, Mr. Holmes, that country living seems to have agreed with you,” she managed to say, clearing her throat as she tried to regain her equilibrium and engage in their usual banter.  “And the food, too, it seems.”

    His scowl was purely for show, though the doctor’s laughter was free and easy as he made to pour them all a cup of tea.  

    “I believe that was due to the lovely Mrs. Everman’s feeding up,” he said as he presented her with a cup, made to her liking.  “Ten pounds, wasn’t it, Holmes?”

    “Eight,” Holmes growled as he tugged his jacket down self consciously.  

    “And it looks wonderful on you,” Watson murmured as he passed him his cup.  

    Holmes’ eyes softened, and he hastily took a sip of tea to cover his reaction.  Mrs. Hudson smiled into her own cup and sipped delicately.  

    “Oh, we have a present for you!” Watson exclaimed, moving over to a lumpy, hastily wrapped parcel which he presented to her with all the charm he possessed.  

    “Thank you, Doctor, Mr. Holmes!”

    Placing her cup back onto the table, she unwrapped the gift delicately, her delighted cry earning twin smiles as she examined the teacups appreciatively.  

    “Thank you!” she whispered again, and swallowed the lump in her throat quickly, giving a  little cough as she did so, knowing she had not fooled either man. “Dinner will be served at half seven, gentlemen.  Welcome home!”

    If her exit seemed more hasty than was pardonable by good manners she knew neither man would blame her, and for a long moment she stood outside the door, trying to compose herself.    
      
    Her gentlemen had come home.  They were both healthy and looked happier than she had seen either for too long to remember.  Clutching her teacups to her chest like a prized treasure, she made her way silently down the stairs, knowing that everything was finally as it should be.

    In the sitting room of 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shared their first real kiss in what had been, and always would be, their home.

 

The End

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Soldier's Heart" by Piplover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/897523) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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